It Could Be Worse
by Anonymous TF2er
Summary: Lonely old RED Sniper comes to terms with himself, life and that snail-eatin' RED Spy. An attempt at character development and actual realistic romance written in response to all the terrible Sniper/Spy garbage out there. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have published a completely original story as an e-book with this same title, do not be alarmed.
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic was written completely out of spite. I got tired of all the terrible Kawaii Emo Spy and Van Rapist Sniper stuff out there, and of most of the Sniper/Spy fandom in general. I also got tired of all the people putting the characters and the pairing down or outright dismissing everything featuring them without a second glance because of the reputation caused by the former.

So here it is, an egotistical attempt at how to do it 'right'. Romance, humor, drama, a pinch of action and perhaps a dash of (hopefully) realistic character development and progression. I hope you like it, and that it makes Sniper and Spy enjoyable or at least tolerable again. Originally posted in its entirety on TF2chan, this is the edited, completely finished version. Danke schoen.

AUTHOR'S NOTE II: If you see an e-book called It Could Be Worse out there, do not be alarmed. I have adapted ICBW into a completely original story and published it to help pay the bills. Danke schoen.

It Could Be Worse

by: Anonymous

"_Bonne journée_."

"Ah, piss."

Sniper raised the brim of his hat an inch and looked at the sleek dress shoes and smart pinstripes to his right, so out of place in the scrubby desert. Then he lowered it again, shutting his eyes.

"And how _are_ you, this fine afternoon?" the voice continued.

Sniper ignored it, settling lower in his deck chair.

"Tch. Such treatment of your own teammate. It is but a simple polite qu-"

"Well I _was_ nappin' until _you_ showed up, Spy!" he finally snapped, the brim of his hat rising again with an angry flick of his fingers as he glared up at the man. "Thought your type was s'pposed to be more observant than that!"

RED Spy didn't respond, instead gazing idly about at the scenery. The RED Sniper insisted on living outdoors in his camper van, and had annexed a private back corner of their current base's property for himself. Half-hidden by old crates, cannisters and piles of equipment and parked right up against the fence, it was very much out of the way and not something you'd stumble upon accidentally. You'd have to make a point of coming over.

The Australian gunman had indeed been napping, sprawled out on a slightly-too-small and rickety old deck lounge chair that he'd propped up outside of his camper, his bulky vest draped over a corner of one of the closer crates. For whatever reason the BLU Team never made a move on weekends, giving the REDs a chance to catch their breath and relax. Sniper enjoyed the occasional afternoon siesta in the sun, and had been in the midst of one when so rudely interrupted.

Jumbled piles of washed jars and empty beer bottles dried in the sun next to the old van. The ground around the chair itself was randomly littered with newspapers, magazines, old cigarettes and several more bottles, both empty and full. Spy gave one near his foot a little kick.

"All you would need is an old tire in the corner there, and perhaps a few fruit peels, and then you would have the beginning of a most _wonderful_ garbage dump," Spy remarked.

"Yer so funny. What do you _want_, Spy."

"Want? Want? I want nothing but to fraternize with my coworker. We are a team, after all."

"Hrmph. Save it for later. I ain't in the mood for talkin'."

"As you wish, _mate_."

Sniper grumbled at the imitation, and shaded his face with the slouch hat pulled low. He soon heard footsteps, a slight rustling, and the gentle hiss of the Spy's cloaking device. All was finally quiet once more; Sniper exhaled. Then he sat bolt upright, whipping his head to and fro. His vest had disappeared right along with the Frenchman.

Swearing loudly, he jumped up and started heading at speed in the direction he'd heard Spy go. The other man had the reflexes and stealth of a cat when he wanted, and seemed to spend just as much time antagonizing his own side as he did fighting the enemy. The Spy also seemed to take special delight in bothering Sniper. Sniper figured it had something to do with the mercenaries' jobs being so similar yet so at odds with each other, or some sort of spill-over aggression from fighting the BLU Sniper, but who _really_ knew with that man. He'd probably singled Sniper out randomly.

He rounded another corner, and entered the base. The antagonization had reached new levels lately, with Spy outright _stealing_ people's belongings. Mostly his. The infuriating part was that he apparently did it just for kicks, as within a few hours the missing item was usually found just sitting somewhere random, discarded. Sometimes it was an innocent item, sometimes not. Spy had once found a purse, of all things, and had quietly left it on the messhall table for all to see. The massive confusion and suspicion had lasted several days. The smarmy bastard had probably loved every minute of it.

Sniper heard movement in a hallway to his left and quickly entered it, eyes peeled for the telltale glimmers and distorted shadows cloaking devices made when up close. He quickened his pace again after what sounded like a faint snicker, just on the edge of hearing.

Sniper could feel his temper rising, something it did a lot more often lately then it used to. His job called for a great deal of patience, which he usually had in spades, but it appeared that getting under people's skin was part of the Spy's own job description.

.

He loped up and down the twisty passages of the lower fortress, glaring into closets and spare rooms, always coming up empty-handed. Whenever he thought Spy had lost him and was about to give up, the footsteps started up yet again. Sometimes it sounded like they were doubling back to him before taking off once more; like he was being egged on to keep going.

And there they were, loud and clear, heading in his direction. Sniper quickly flattened himself against the wall, just around the edge of the corner. To hell with all this chasing, he was just going to wait for Spy to finish doubling back again and jump him. He flexed his fists, holding his breath during a slight pause in the sounds. They resumed, and the moment he saw the tiniest sliver of shadow rounding the corner, he jumped.

"_Gotcha, ya poncey little spoo—_aw, piss. Sorry, Pyro."

"_Hmamamyffm!_"

Sniper released the RED Team Pyro from his headlock, holding his hands up placatingly. Pyro rubbed their head and neck gingerly, muffled anger emanating from within the gasmask. While the Pyro's face was completely obscured by the mask, the blank goggles still managed to give Sniper an offended and accusing look.

"Sorry mate, really. I thought ya were Spy, he—," Sniper stopped, and narrowed his eyes slightly. He raised his hand, paused for a few seconds, and then gave the Pyro's mask a few jabs with his finger. This elicited more muffled outrage, and he quickly took several steps back.

"Sorry sorry sorry! I just wanted to make sure y'were really you! Spy's gone klepto on us again."

Pyro lowered their fists. "Hmfeththm?" they inquired.

"Took me vest when I wasn't lookin'. You ah, ain't seen it around, have ya?" Pyro shook their head. "Piss."

The Sniper kicked at an imaginary annoyance on the ground, and gingerly patted the Pyro on their shoulder. "Ahr, well. Keep an eye out for me, would ya? An' if you see Spy, give 'im a little hotfoot or somethin', eh? Sorry again."

The Pyro made a muffled chittering noise that Sniper presumed to be laughter, and gave him the thumbs up. He watched them walk away. Bollocks to this, he thought. Hands in pockets, he headed for the messhall.

.

"Son, I don't think you could make more noise if y'all _tried_."

"Whatever, Hardhat."

The Scout and Engineer were the only two people in the messhall when Sniper entered. This was fine by him, as they were the ones of the whole odd bunch that he got on best with, them and Demoman. The Demoman spent a lot of time going back and forth between angry drunk and maudlin drunk, Engineer was always rambling away about big words and mind-numbing science, and the kid could be hyper and chatty to an annoying extent, but they were far more tolerable than, say, ten minutes in the same room as Soldier.

Engineer was sitting at the table, scritching away at blueprints for some thing or another with a half-eaten plate of eggs and toast next to him. He occasionally looked up to frown at Scout, who was digging away in the fridge with a cacophany of clinks and clanks. He was rummaging around in everything, stuffing random pieces of food in his mouth as he went.

Sniper regarded this display of youthful metabolism with the quiet hatred of older men everywhere, and turned to the cupboards. Carefully pulling out his prized #1 SNIPER mug, he started fixing himself a pot of decaf without a word.

Scout watched him out of the corner of his eye, cheeks bulging as he chewed. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after finally swallowing he asked, "Yo, Legs. Yer face's longer than usual. What's up?"

"Hrmph. Nothin'."

"Uh-huh, sure. Dingos eat your baby again?"

The gunman slowly swivelled his head in the Scout's direction. He looked so enormously pleased with himself over that joke that Sniper decided to just drop it and let him have it. He swivelled back to his coffee.

"It get that hot out today, Sniper?" Engineer asked.

"Eh? Wotchoo mean?"

Engineer nodded at Sniper's chest. "You're not wearin' your vest, so I was wonderin' how hot it is."

"Oh. It's kind of hot, yeah," Sniper sighed. "But I ain't wearin' my vest 'cos Spy stole it."

The Scout made a disgusted noise, and spat a piece of apple core into the trashcan in the corner. "Man, Spy's nickin' stuff _again_?"

"He's nickin' _my_ stuff again. Goddamn spook seems to have it in for me in particular. You two ain't seen 'im recently? Or my vest?"

"'Fraid not, Sniper. He don't seem to mean real harm with this sort of thing though, so I think it'll show up eventually."

"Gawd, I was so pissed when I thought I'd lost my favorite ball and it just turned out to be Frenchie laughin' at me. How come nobody's complained to the big guys?"

"It ain't real theft, Scout, I doubt they'd care."

The light on the coffee machine bleeped on, and Sniper poured out the fresh decaf. "He's right, unfort'nately. Wish he wasn't. I got better things to do than keep worryin' what of mine'll go missin' next."

Engineer scratched his chin. "Eh, that ain't no knotty problem. Just ignore him."

"Easier said than done, mate."

"Well, _try_ at least. He does it to get a rise outta people. Obvious as spit. You ignore him, it ain't fun for him anymore and he stops. I know he ain't bothered _me_ in a long time 'cos of that."

Sniper looked into the steaming contents of his mug, savoring the smell of the black coffee.

"Here's hopin'," he grunted.

.

Sniper had been about to open the backdoor of his van when he finally noticed the dark shape on the edge of his vision. Setting his coffee mug on a crate, he climbed the vehicle's ladder and cautiously peered over the edge of its roof. It was his vest.

He yanked it down, hopping back to earth and disturbing the desert dust, searching every inch of the vest. It seemed to be in perfect condition; not a bullet or button was out of place. Nothing was missing from its pockets. Slowly putting it back on, he wondered if Spy had immediately placed it up there and he'd been chasing the Frenchman for no reason all that time, or if he'd just recently come back to return it after the fun had ended.

Helluva way to spend yer free time, Sniper thought to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Spy was nowhere to be seen the rest of the day, or at all the next. Monday morning and another work week dawned, and Soldier started ranting about the cowardly Frenchie having finally shown his true colors and run away. He didn't get very far before the aforementioned Frenchie decloaked right next to him, eyebrow arched.

"Just because you do not see me, does not mean I am not here," Spy said coolly. "I am a very busy man."

Bullshit, thought Sniper. Spy always happened to be "busy" and hard to locate after one of his escapades. The rotten sneak knew when not to push his luck and always waited till tempers had cooled and memories had dulled.

The Soldier opened his mouth and began to raise his shovel when the alarms rang and The Administrator's voice boomed down at them, stopping what would've been quite the argument before it even began. It was time for another battle. Weapons at the ready, the eight men and one miscellaneous of RED Team murmured to themselves and flowed out of the base's various exits.

After so long fighting like this, battle days had started to blend together for Sniper. It was always the same, to the point of tedium: the Teams attacked each other. They injured and killed each other. They waited for the strange "respawn" technology both sides posessed to kick in and bring them back to life. Occasionally suitcases of intelligence were captured. Sometimes they were stolen. It never seemed to matter much, neither side ever won or lost to any great degree. It was the stalemate to end all stalemates.

It was strange, how routine something as harrowing and unbelievable as death and rebirth had become. Sniper had occasionally mulled over the fact that he killed people for a living, and just what that meant. But in the end, it didn't mean anything. Nobody he shot ever truly died. They may as well have been playing _tag_ for all it mattered.

So day after day passed; sometimes he shot somebody, and sometimes somebody did him in instead. Occasionally the battles went in really creative directions, which he watched with interest through his scope, but otherwise it was just countless hours of him huddled in his nest or some odd corner, waiting quietly for just the right moment. Sniper was a loner by nature, and did just fine by himself for long periods of time, but even _he_ was starting to get bored. An excellent paycheck may have been coming out of it, but the end of his contract looked lightyears away and he could feel frustration building.

Today was a prime example. Both sides captured the intelligence once or twice, and several members of each Team met their end, though not for long. Sniper knew that the same would happen the next day, and the day after that. He would have been _this close_ to screwing around and taking silly potshots at the BLUs, if he wasn't sure Soldier'd give him an earful over it. Maybe he'd do it anyway.

Five o'clock finally rolled around; the sirens blared. The work day was over. Sniper and several others on the Team had wondered and fretted about the fact that the fighting followed such a strict, office-like schedule, not just for them but for BLU Team as well. Eventually it became just another part of the unquestioned and boring routine, just like respawn.

Rifle slung over his back, Sniper slid down the ladder of his most recent nest and slowly made his way back to the main portion of the base. He did so fearlessly, as ceasefire rules were strictly followed, thinking vaguely about what he might want for dinner. Not that there was a whole lot of choice with the rations they currently had. Maybe he'd start it off with some coffee? He knew he was too fond of the stuff, and it probably didn't help his poor beleaguered kidneys either. But what the hell, at least he stuck to decaf.

Most of the Team was milling around in the messhall, chatting and taking turns at preparing food. Pyro was always first to the oven, as they seemed to get strangely anxious if they weren't. The others kept their distance as the ranges were lovingly lit and teased into life. Soldier was swearing under his breath in one corner, jabbing at various buttons on the shiny new microwave as Engineer hovered.

"Leave me _alone_, Tex, I know what I'm doing! This damn fancy box just doesn't want to play nice!"

"You just reset the clock again. This ain't somethin' you'll want to break, Sol, please just tell me what ya want an' I'll do it."

"DO I LOOK LIKE A QUITTER TO YOU? I DIDN'T BOW DOWN BEFORE THE THIRD REICH, I'M NOT ABOUT TO BOW DOWN BEFORE THIS OVER-BUTTONED LITTLE PEST!"

Sniper squeezed past a laughing Demoman, who judging by the eye-watering tinge to the air around him had already opened another bottle of Scrumpy. He headed to the usual cupboard and looked inside, but the familiar #1 symbol was nowhere in sight. He blinked at the empty space, then shut the cupboard and sidled over to the dishwasher. It wasn't in there, either. Frowning, Sniper checked inside all the other cupboards. Still nothing. Had he left it in his camper? He knew he hadn't left it in any of his nests. In fact he could've sworn that he'd brought it back inside this morning to be washed.

Might as well go check and just give it a rinse out or something. It was his favorite mug and he never used another one if he could help it. Soldier's swearing was growing in volume and complexity, so it was as good a time as any to slip out of the room and return to his van. Sniper was halfway down the hall when a loud _crunch_ and sparky electrical noises filled the air, followed by an exasperated grunt and what sounded like a wrench hitting a helmet. He quickened his pace.

.

It was approaching late autumn, so while the days were still warm the desert nights were very cold, and as Sniper stepped outside the sky was already growing dark. Before long he'd be able to see his breath. Sniper was familiar with desert weather such as this, and he made a mental note to stock up on more yarn the next time he went into town. Some folks might laugh, but he'd be the one with a warm neck in the end.

He was lost in thought about colors and yarn thickness when the sound of a throat being cleared startled him. He swiftly looked up, and there was Spy, leaning against a wall watching him. The #1 SNIPER mug was carefully cupped in both gloved hands.

"You came to look for this, yes?" he asked conversationally. "So late in the day, too. I do believe you drink _too_ much coffee, and this is coming from a Frenchman."

Sniper's fists clenched. He could already tell where this was going. "S'a matter of opinion, that," he said. He tried to keep his face blank, but it was hard with Spy's eyes focused on him. "An' yes, I _was_ lookin' for my mug, good guess."

"But of course. I was bringing it to you, you know."

"Were you now."

"Yes, a little token of goodwill, to make up for the other day. I saw you had left it behind, so here it is now for me to give to you. I was trying to save you the trip, but I see I was not fast enough."

Spy's right hand flicked out, the mug balanced on his palm. "Here you go, mate."

Oh, no, thought Sniper. No no, I ain't playin' this game. He had a good eye for detail, as befit a man of his profession, and he could see through Spy's carefully good-natured appearance. The grey-blue eyes were boring into him harder than before, and he could see the subtle tension in Spy's stance. The man was poised for flight.

Sniper knew what was coming next, and yet another blasted round of Keepaway Tag was not in his plans for the evening. Time to take the Engineer's advice. He stood up straight with hands clasped behind his back, and gave Spy a smiling nod.

"That's mighty nice of ya, thanks! I actually have to get somethin' else from me camper, so if you could just leave that in the messhall, that'd be real grand."

Spy's hand swayed slightly in surprise. "I…what?"

"Just drop it off on the counter or somethin' when ya get yer dinner, that's all. Thanks mate!" Sniper gave the man a few hearty claps on the shoulder, smiled again, and continued onwards. Spy stood stock still for several moments before he finally turned around and stared at the retreating Sniper's back.

"You do not want to take it from me?" he asked. To Sniper's satisfaction, there was a slight edge of incredulous disappointment to his voice.

Sniper waved vaguely back at him without turning around. "No worries!"

It had taken a lot of effort to keep walking like that, as Sniper was sure Spy would pull something. But there was silence, and after milling around inside his camper for about ten minutes to make his excuse look more valid, he went back to the messhall completely unhindered.

Several Team members were still there; some at the long dining table, one or two still preparing their evening meals. Scout was seated at one end, scowling and drumming his fingers rapidly. He was usually the last one to eat at big mealtimes like this, as the older and larger men always jostled him out of the way. He was probably used to it, coming from such a large family, but it still annoyed the young mercenary.

The #1 SNIPER mug sat quietly in the middle of a spare countertop, clean and in one piece. Sniper was actually quite surprised to see it there, he'd expected Spy to hide it or randomly place it somewhere hours later, like he usually did with the items he lifted.

"The hell you say to Spy?" Scout demanded as he went for his mug.

"Whad'ya mean?"

"You blackmail him or somethin'? He washed your stupid cup and made a friggin' pot of coffee and everything. I thought he'd stolen it, but this don't make sense for somethin' like that."

Sniper looked again, and sure enough a pot of decaf was gently bubbling away. What the hell. Spy wasn't apologizing, was he? The Frenchman was pretty swift, maybe he'd caught on to the fact that Sniper wasn't putting up with his behavior any longer.

He carefully pulled out the orange-rimmed pot and regarded it with suspicion. His mug was clean, and the coffee looked and smelled delicious. He poured a small amount and took a sip, immediately spitting it back in. He picked the pot up again and swirled it slightly, until the soggy remains of a used cigarette finally floated to the top of the dark liquid.

He glared at the dog end. There was no mistaking the long, thin design. Scout stifled a burst of laughter, turning it into a little half-snort. "Oh man, I knew somethin' was up," he cackled. "Spy ain't nice for anybody."

Sniper said nothing as he emptied the fouled liquid into the sink. It looked like he'd be testing his well-honed patience more than anticipated.


	3. Chapter 3

The week that followed seemed to go on forever, as Sniper's hunch had been correct. Despite whatever snide remarks about his heritage Soldier and Scout might make, the Spy did not give up easily. At all. He made several more attempts to rile up Sniper, each more quietly desperate and determined-seeming than the last, but Sniper just grit his teeth and bore it. One sign of weakness and it'd undo the whole damn attempt and start it over again, and that was the _last_ thing he wanted.

And then suddenly, it all stopped. Sniper waited, as patiently as a, well, Sniper, but nothing happened, not even to his teammates. The days started to tick by, all without incident. They got on with their repetitive, bloody business, though Spy did seem slightly quieter than usual.

Sniper was pleased and confused at the same time. Why didn't he just change his focus to one of the others? He may have been the apparent main target, but Spy had messed around with _everybody_. There were so many short tempers to choose from.

He'd mentioned it to Engineer one evening, during one of their occasional shared beers next to the campfire. Engineer had just shrugged.

"Good question, fella, but I sure as heck don't know. Maybe he thinks you told the rest of us to do the same and it wouldn't be worth the effort. Or maybe he just got _bored_. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, I always say."

He agreed, and went about his business.

.

Sniper opened his eyes, stared up at the blank white ceiling, and groaned.

Respawn. No matter how many times it happened as part of every-day life now, it was always a pain. Those first few minutes were like waking up with a terrible hangover, though a mercifully short one. He always came to stiff and unsteady, the pounding in his head and heart making him feel sick. He was thankful for respawn, even if it was mildly terrifying to think about to any degree, but he sure looked forward to the day when it was no longer needed.

Slowly sitting up, Sniper blearily looked around the clinical room to see if he was the only one who'd been taken out by the BLU Soldier's surprise barrage from the roof. Apparently so, all the other tables were bare, the cloning machinery shut fast in their little hidden cubbies in the ceiling. It had been quite a few days since he'd been in here last; he was very good about being cautious.

He carefully vacated his cold table and lurched towards the door. The respawn room was right next to the main infirmary, and as he passed he was surprised to see Medic bustling around inside, organizing the counters and fussing around in general.

Sniper leaned against the door frame, partly to steady himself. "Oi, Medic. Whatchoo doin' back here already? The work day ain't over is it?"

Medic turned from unwinding some gauze and peered at him over the tops of his glasses. "It is, in fact. Just ended. Vhere vere you all zhis time? Respawn only takes fifteen minutes, not two hours."

"Wot? That can't be right, I only just woke up in there. Ya sure?"

"Sure as sure, ve claimed victory und I came here ahead of zhe rest as usual, to treat minor scrapes." Medic frowned. "Two hours, really? Zhat is quite long. How did you die?"

The Sniper rubbed his aching temples. Much as he was used to it, many of his deaths were quite terribly painful and he tried not to think about them. "That BLU Soldier got our nest, remember? I think he rocketed me up pretty good, but Engineer an' the Pyro escaped."

The German doctor's eyebrows knit and his frown deepened. "Yes, I remember zhat. Zhe Pyro _did_ escape, but Engineer did not. He respawned after fifteen minutes as normal, vhy did not _you_?"

Sniper boggled at the man. "We…really? We died at the same time?" He rubbed his temples harder, and felt a little stab of fearful uncertainty. "The…the machine ain't glitchin', is it?"

"I do not know. I vill ask Engineer to look."

As their conversation progressed Medic had been eyeing the unsteady Sniper with concern, looking him over from head to toe. Suddenly they fixed on the left side of his face, as Sniper had turned slightly while speaking. Medic marched up to him.

"Let me see your face."

Without waiting for an answer, Medic grasped Sniper's chin and turned his head further, peering closely at the man as he adjusted his glasses. "Hunh."

"Wot? What is it? I ain't got somethin' on me, do I?"

"In a manner of speaking." The doctor released him, and did an about-turn back to the main counter as Sniper rubbed his jaw. Rummaging in a drawer, Medic pulled out a small mirror and tossed it to him. Sniper caught it, looked, and swore very loudly.

A thin but very long and livid scar now marred the left side of his face, from the tip of his nose to the tip of his ear. There were a few spots where it stopped and started again, because of the lay of his face, but it was obviously all from the same long, broad stroke.

Sniper was shocked out of his post-respawn stupor, much like a drunk man suddenly sobered. He raised an uncertain finger and traced the tender, still-fresh mark, staring into the mirror.

"Bloody _hell_."

"Did anybody injure you before zhe Soldier killed you?"

"Naw, nobody! I'd been doin' well till that wanker got the drop on us. Blew me up good an' proper. But that—"

"Shouldn't have left a scar, I know," said the Medic. "Small injuries leave scars after respawn. Numerous ones und messy deaths are unscathed resets. Zhat is vhat your Soldier death should have been. Hmm."

Faint sounds of the rest of the RED Team returning arose in the distance, and the Medic glanced at Sniper. He was still fixated with his reflection. Medic took hold of his shoulders and turned him around, leading him into the hallway with a slight nudge.

"But vhat's done is done, at least it vasn't a giant scar, or something crippling. Perhaps it all vas a glitch in zhe system, I vill ask Engineer as I said. Now I must treat zhe rest."

Sniper nodded slightly, in a sort of dreamy daze. He slowly walked along, passing most of the Team as they variously headed to their quarters, the messhall, Medic's infirmary and elsewhere. One or two looked at him questioningly, but he said nothing.

Eventually he reached the room that functioned as the Team's makeshift rec area, a collection of random tables, chairs and couches cobbled together from wherever, with a variety of time-fillers scattered around. Sniper sat down heavily in a threadbare armchair, still clutching the mirror.

He felt his gaze dragged down towards the little circle of glass. He held it up, looking at his reflection yet again. The dark line on his face seemed to fill the whole damn thing.

He wasn't sure why it was so upsetting. Sniper was no stranger to scars, not after years of dealing with wild animals, prickly plantlife and surly mercenaries. He was definitely not a _vain_ man, either. Well, maybe he took a little pride in his sideburns. The left one of which, he now noticed, had a permanent nick in it from the injury.

Maybe the way it had seemed to come out of nowhere was part of it. Maybe it was the fact that he'd never received such an obvious one before. Something on the arm or back was nothing special, but a big red slash right across your _face_ tended to attract attention and make most people extra wary of you. Shit, he didn't need that.

He didn't want to think about how his family would react. He'd have to be _very careful_ with his next Christmas card photo.

A few teammates came and went, picking through the room's contents for their evening entertainment. They took the scar in stride, as it was the sort of thing that came with the territory here. Sniper's responses to them were terse and gloomy regardless, so they left him alone. The room was quiet.

Only briefly. The sound of a firm clicking grew and approached, a particular sound that could only be Spy's expensive shoes clicking on tile. Piss, he thought. Not now. I really don't need this now.

Spy entered the room, seemingly ignoring Sniper. He approached a stack of books in the corner and delicately picked one up with thumb and forefinger, like it was a piece of rubbish or might bite. He glanced at its covers, deciding, but ultimately threw it back on the table. The remaining books in the stack were considered, but rejected as well with a wrinkled nose and a sigh. Snob, thought Sniper.

He couldn't help himself. "Not good enough, then? Sorry there ain't more by fancy French nances, we'll keep that in mind fer our next trip t'town."

"Mm," said Spy without looking at him. He was unfazed, and moved on to another table. "I have read half of these books already, for starters. And apologies if I do not find baseball facts as _fascinating_ as the Scout."

Sniper sat in sullen silence, waiting for the inevitable. Reading the inside flap of a memoir, Spy's cigarette moved from one corner of his mouth to the other, his face carefully blank.

"You were gone quite some time today," he remarked casually. Yep, there it was. "The battle too much for you, hm? Snipers, can't handle anything within a hundred metres of them. Probably ran off to the Demoman's Scrumpy stash and had yourself quite a time while we were so bu-"

Spy had snapped the book shut and was finally turning towards Sniper as he spoke. It was fascinating, watching his expression change from blank to amused to a double-take within a matter of seconds.

Sniper had admittedly not expected this strong a reaction. Spy just stood there, book in his hand and mouth parted slightly in shock, eyes glued to the left side of his face. There was…what was that in his expression? Something like déjà vu? That was odd.

The stare was getting to him. "You just keep starin' mate, yer gonna lose that pointy nose of yers right quick," Sniper grumbled. "It ain't _that_ bad."

"How did you get that!" It wasn't so much a question as a demand.

"Dunno. BLU Soldier blew me up, mebbe some shrapnel or somethin'."

The Spy's forehead wrinkled as he frowned, something that was always greatly exaggerated by the tight balaclava he wore. "But that is not how-"

"Yeh, yeh, I know. I had a long respawn too, two hours. S'why you all didn't see me."

"Two hou-"

"_Yes_, that ain't right either, Medic an' I think the machinery glitched. Engineer's gonna look at it." He slumped a little lower in the chair, wanting this conversation to be over already.

Sniper remembered the mirror in his hand, and glared at his reflection again. He prodded the still-tender area on his face angrily. "Sonnuvabitch even got me ear," he said, mostly to himself.

Spy had not moved all this time. He seemed unsettled, and to be taking this far harder than the rest had for whatever reason. "I.."

But he stopped himself. Spy carefully put the book down, and began to regain his composure. Or at least pretended to; something was still off. Drumming his fingers slightly on the hardbound leather, Spy regarded Sniper silently for a few moments, with a look on his face he couldn't quite identify.

The drumming stopped, and Spy briskly crossed the room. "Well it is only a little one, yes? Nothing to mope about, I am sure. Cry some more, as our large Russian friend would comment."

This is gettin' schizophrenic, Sniper thought. "Sez the man who was lookin' at me like I had snakes comin' outta me nose a minute ago."

Spy had bent down and was looking inside one of the drawers in the largest table in the room. He ignored the comment, pulling out a long, flat box. "I think," he declared, dropping it unceremoniously in Sniper's lap, "that a little entertainment to take your mind off it is in order."

Sniper stared at the worn box, and then up at Spy. "_You_. Want to play Chess. With _me_."

"True, true, that may be too difficult for you, yes? Would you prefer Checkers?"

Sniper's eyebrows couldn't raise any higher if he'd tried, the confusion and anger was starting to boil over. He took the box and slammed it down on the floor, standing up finally and glowering two feet away from the Frenchman. "I don't want t'play _anythin'_ with you! The hell, Spy! Ya make no flippin' sense whatsoever, an' I just wanna be _alone_ right now! D'you get it?"

Spy said nothing. It was infuriating how he kept doing that, just silently _looking_ at you all the time instead of responding. Though lately most of these expressions seemed to have an extra edge to them, such as what Sniper swore looked like a vague hint of sorrow in the one he held right now.

He took a long, slow drag off his cigarette, releasing the smoke even more slowly with what sounded like a small sigh. Then a clipped "Very well," and Spy headed for the door.

Spy paused in the exit. He turned his head as if to say something, turned back to leave, and then turned again towards Sniper, who was still standing in front of his chair, clutching the little mirror like a talisman.

"Sulk if you must," he said icily, "but it could be _much_ worse, you know." Then the ice melted, and Sniper was bewildered by the faraway sadness in his voice when he repeated himself. "It could be much worse."

And Spy was gone, leaving him to stare at the empty wall.


	4. Chapter 4

"Go go _go!_"

"Hrmm mrpha!"

Sniper clattered awkwardly down the rickety stairs, bumping into corners and trying very hard not to trip and fall onto the smaller teammates in front of him. The BLU Demoman had stumbled upon their location, and he, Engineer and Pyro had scrambled like mad to avoid the glowing blue bombs that had come spinning their way.

The three of them had been working together on defense lately, trying new strategies. Engineer built up his beeping and whirring little fort, Sniper did his job with the emergency dispenser close at hand, and the Pyro protected them both from enemy Spies and whoever else dared come near. It was usually very effective, though they still fell prey to the occasional rocket or bomb from persistent BLUs. Like now.

"Left, Truckie, go left!"

They'd all escaped the wrath of the BLU Demoman this time, but Engineer had been injured and was bleeding freely. He was slowing down despite his efforts, even with Sniper's help carrying his massive toolbox. Pyro circled them fretfully, looking every which way with their flamethrower raised.

Engineer came to a stop, and leaned against the wall. "Forget it, fellas," he said. He was breathing heavily. "I'm done for, just get your own selves outta here and I'll take the danged respawn if I hafta."

"Bloody rubbish," Sniper snapped at him. "No need t'use that thing so much, you can make it." Sniper was still feeling uncertain about the respawn room. As promised, Medic had asked Engineer to take a look at the machinery, which the man had done the very next day. Absolutely nothing wrong so far as he could see, he'd said, there'd just been a little tidbit in the computer logs about updating the database. Probably just a delayed respawn because of that, nothing to worry about. Sniper worried anyway.

More explosions sounded in the distance, and Sniper looked around wildly. He grabbed Engineer's arm and proceeded to drag the small man into a little room tucked away in the corner. The lone window was blessedly boarded up.

"Pyro!" Pyro came waddling in behind them, struggling under the weight of Engineer's toolbox combined with their own equipment. "Right, good, okay." Sniper hovered in the doorway nervously, frequently looking back over his shoulder. "You stay with Truckie, mate, okay? Help him get that Dispenser up. _No_, Truckie, you put that dispenser up _first_. Heal up! You blokes heal an' gear up an' make sure yer good an' ready before ya do anythin' else. I'll try t'find a good spot an' keep 'em busy somewhere else."

Pyro gave him the thumbs up and started helping Engineer open his toolbox and set up as Sniper carefully closed the door. He hoped that if any BLUs came this way they didn't notice the dull red glow seeping through the cracks.

He headed at speed towards the opposite end of the row of abandoned buildings they'd been fighting around. The ramshackle collection of old houses and storage facilities that dotted the landscape around the two fortresses were both annoying and a blessing.

Sniper had been about to climb a heap of boxes to reach a hole in the roof that looked like it would make for a promising shooting location, when he tripped. He fell headlong into a dusty pile of tires and cloth under some broken stairs, just as a rocket screamed past and exploded against the wall.

Raising his head from the pile of rubbish he currently inhabited, Sniper speechlessly looked at the smoking ring of black that marked the spot where he'd been when he tripped. He'd been a hair's breadth away from a terrible 'gibbing', as the Team called it.

Something wasn't right. When the rocket had hit the wall and sprayed debris, he could've _sworn_ he'd heard a small grunt that wasn't his own. But he was alone, with no bodies or blood trails around. What had he even tripped on? The building may be derelict, but he'd been keeping his eyes peeled as he ran and the floor had been bare. No holes or cracks in the floorboards, either.

It almost felt like some invisible person had stuck their foot out in front of him. But it couldn't be, the Spies of both Teams had better things to do than that. Didn't they?

.

By the time the day's fighting had finished, Sniper was in a filthy temper. While the three of them had managed to last it out without further damage, the rest of the Team hadn't been so lucky and RED had lost _badly_. Medic and his friend the Heavy nursed respawn headaches in a corner of the messhall, complaining to each other over dinner. RED Demoman nursed his usual bottle of Scrumpy, on the verge of drunken tears. Soldier sat there angrily, or at least more angrily than usual, looking like he was trying to destroy his plate with his mind.

Sniper wasn't really upset about the loss, though. You win some, you lose some. It was the fact that after the tripping incident, he'd gotten the distinct impression that somebody unseen had nudged and pushed him several times in battle. He'd be in a sticky situation, and suddenly there'd be a feeling of pressure sending him in the opposite direction of a bullet or shrapnel.

Spy was nowhere to be seen during dinner that evening. Sniper was pretty sure he knew why.

Was he trying to apologize, for real this time? Did he pity Sniper, or think him incapable of fighting now? Either way, Sniper was pissed. He didn't need no stinkin' _French maid_ to fuss over him like a child.

Dinner was nearly over. While he'd been busy fuming silently to himself and everybody else was down about their failure that day, Scout had barely touched his own food and seemed more hyperactive than usual. He'd been fidgeting in his seat, his eyes darting around to various people, then back to his plate. Once or twice he looked like he was going to say something, but he bit his lip instead. His left foot tapped incessantly under the table.

Finally, he seemed to find his voice. "So," he said. Everybody ignored him. "_So_," he said again, a little louder. Engineer wearily looked up at him.

"You chuckleheads know what tomorrow is?"

Pyro looked down at the table in deep concentration for a moment. "Smtrmy?" they ventured.

"It's my birthday tomorrow." Scout's voice sounded like he could explode with excitement. His eyes darted around again, seeking reactions.

"Well congratulations, son," Engineer said politely. "How old are y'all?"

"Twenty-one!" Scout radiated pride.

At this, everybody else turned to stare at him. "Is not possible," Heavy muttered from the corner.

Sniper tipped his hat up for a better look. "Twenty-one, really? …Y'sure? Y'look like yer sixteen or somethin'."

"I really am twenty-one, assholes!" Scout said indignantly. "I just…I just got a youthful face, ya know? Not like you wrinkly old geezers," he added.

Engineer leaned back, twiddling his thumbs slightly as he regarded the young man. "Would I be correct in hypothesizin' that a twenty-one year old gent such as yourself is intent on havin' his first drink tomorrow?" Demoman's ears seemed to perk as he said this.

"I've had plenty'a drinks before, Goggles!" the young mercenary scoffed. Then he shifted position nervously. "But, uh, my first _legal_ one, that'd be pretty cool, yeah, right? So could I, uh, borrow your pickup tomorrow?"

A derisive snort issued from Medic, and Pyro made uncertain noises. Demoman reached over and gave the Scout a hearty clap on the shoulder, which rocked him slightly. "Lad, it'd be me honor tae buy ye yer first drink as a man t'marra! I'll go with ye!" Medic and Heavy exchanged slightly horrified glances at this.

"You two can use my truck, but _I'll_ be driving," said Engineer. "I gotta go into town tomorrow anyhow, why not." He nodded in Sniper's direction. "He's comin' too."

"Wot? Why me? I'm too big fer giggly birthday parties." Sniper was still in a mood. "Y'want me to take a picture as he blows out the candles?"

"Fuck you too, horseface."

"'Cos I like even numbers, _and_ 'cos that's one person each to a drunk." The Engineer gave him a sidelong glance. "And you look like you could do with a beer as well, pardner. Don't you have to pick up more postcards an' somesuch anyways?"

"_Fine_." Sniper poked his fork at the last few crumbs on his plate. "I ain't holdin' no one's head over the toilet, though."

.

The nearest bastion of civilization to the RED and BLU outposts was a town so small it barely qualified as one; a few streets of shops and eateries and public works with desert ranches sprinkled here and there in the far-off distance. It was a good one hour's drive away and located next to a major highway, a glorified rest area on the way to more interesting places.

It had been a tedious drive. Scout blabbed about anything that popped into his head, despite the minimal response from the people crowded in the pickup with him. Sniper desperately wished he'd sprawled out back in the bed of the truck with Demoman instead; his tall, lanky frame was cramped in the dusty old vehicle and the Scot was almost always far more pleasant company than the Scout.

Around mid-afternoon they finally pulled onto the main strip of the town, such as it was. Demoman and Scout had wanted to leave earlier, but Engineer had been firm about not drinking at noon. The two of them made a beeline for the dinky little bar on the corner, Engineer headed for the hardware store, and Sniper made his way to the tiny general store.

He mainly just bought postcards, pencils and stamps there. He may argue with them all the time over his chosen profession, amongst countless other subjects, but family was very important to Sniper. Several teammates liked to tease him over all the cards, letters and phonecalls he exchanged with his parents, but Sniper mostly ignored them. No matter what, they were _family_. It was a reassuring constant in a life such as his.

So he stocked up on the usual with a few magazines, a new toothbrush, an amusing bumper sticker and a bag of hard candy thrown in for good measure, dumped it in the truck, and grimly walked into the bar. He'd heard the Demoman's boisterous laughter from twenty feet away.

Sure enough, Demoman was already on his second beer. He and the Scout were sitting at one of several tables near the counter of the small saloon, a number of bottles filling the surface in front of them. The barkeep and two other patrons were eyeing them curiously.

"C'mon, lad! If ye stare at it any longer I'm ginnae drink it _for_ ye!"

"Don't rush me, man!" Scout looked unusually nervous.

Sniper found himself grinning as he tromped across the sawdust and peanut shells. "Well well, what's this? I thought ya'd drunk beer all sorts'a times before, mate."

"I seem to recall a declaration of that nature as well," came the voice of Engineer from behind him. He'd finished his own business and joined Sniper in sitting at the small circular table with the others.

"Everybody shut up!" Scout snarled, snatching one of the bottles in front of him and lifting it towards his face. His nose wrinkled at the smell of the alcohol, and he set it back down again, turning slightly red.

"It's an acquired taste, son," Engineer said mildly. "The smell an' flavor of alcohol's a real shock to the uninitiated."

Scout said nothing. His face became determined, and in one quick movement he picked up the bottle and took a large swig. His eyes bugged out and a small spray of the cheap beer escaped his lips, ending with the young man coughing hoarsely into his arm. Everybody in the bar laughed, including the non-mercenaries. Demoman had tears in his eye. Scout cussed them out as soon as he could talk again, gripping the bottle fiercely.

Sniper felt his mood already improving, despite everything. No need to sulk, this wasn't so bad. He popped open one of the beers and took in the room, his practiced eyes inspecting everything out of habit. The barkeep was a chubby middle-aged man with a bald spot, the two patrons a drifter-looking fellow with a beard and a thin blond man with a crewcut and glasses. Completely harmless-looking. Sniper took a swig of his own.

The four men settled in, chatting with each other as they whiled the rest of the afternoon away in the sawdust-smelling little establishment. Scout seemed to relax a little and come to terms with the beer, taking little sips sporadically with only the occasional grimace.

"Man, you're _jokin'_. They're like…like little grey teddy bears!"

"Trust me on this, mate. They got sharp l'il claws that hurt, an' most of those smelly buggers have chlamydia. You couldn't pay me to pick up a koala without a good, thick pair o' gloves. Cute nothin'."

"But wot aboot th' platypussies? They're like l'il beavers with dook heads, I rath'r like them. Doon't tell me _they're_ dang'rous too!"

"Poison spurs on the males. They won't kill ya, but the pain's excruciatin' an' it can mess ya up fer _months_."

"Bloody hell!"

"Man, you're from, like, the stupidest country _ever_. Why the hell would anybody wanna live there. Frickin' poison and death everywhere!"

"S'not so bad, ain't like you don't have rattlesnakes an' gila monsters an' scorpions an' the like right here."

"He's right boys, anywhere y'all go there's _some_ sort of critter out there that can do you up good and proper. Australia's just more _creative_ about it."

Shaking his head, Sniper got up to buy another round. The fat little barkeep plunked the bottles in front of him, and just as he was reaching for his wallet the blond man raised a hand. "Oh! Let me get that for y'all!" There was a disappointed noise from the drifter. "Aw, fine, one fer him too."

He grinned sheepishly at the surprised Sniper. "Hope y'all don't mind, I can't help but listen to the stories you're sharin'. Place like this, it's like goin' to the movies. Don't get to see folks like this much, y'know?"

"I gotta agree with him," the barkeep said, chiming in. "That old factory-farm place you boys are always fightin' at is the most interesting thing to ever happen in this neck of the woods for ages." What really went on at the RED and BLU complexes was supposed to be secret, but sometimes it seemed like everybody within a hundred miles of the place seemed to know the truth. They were amused more than terrified, and occasionally the Team found themselves being treated like minor celebrities. Like now.

The man picked up a few of the beers and followed him back to the little table. "Never thought I'd come 'cross a Scottish black fella, or even an Australian for that matter. Whereabouts Down Under you from?"

"Adelaide, city on the southern coast. S'real pretty there."

"Oh yeah? I hear they surf in Australia, that true?"

The blond man, and occasionally the drifter and barkeep, joined in on the conversation, curious about life in big cities like Boston and how different foreign countries were. The mercenaries didn't mind too much, as the questions didn't get _too_ personal and seemed to be just the usual rural interest in Far Far Away. Australia in particular seemed to be the favored topic, being as it was such a strange and exotic place to so many people. The blond asked lots of questions, watching Sniper intently as he described his homeland and some of his experiences growing up there.

It finally started to be a bit of an overload, though. Pleasant as it was, Sniper prefered being by himself and all this time spent in close quarters with multiple people, half of them strangers, was beginning to make him feel antsy. He glanced at his watch, and as if on cue Scout gently slumped sideways onto Demoman's shoulder, snoring gently. The Demoman didn't seem to mind, he was busy staring glassily off into the distance with a vague smile on his face.

"Ooh, it _is_ startin' to get late, isn't it?" said Engineer. He stood up and stretched, and poked Scout in the shoulder a few times. "We should get these two back and have a bite to eat or somethin'."

Another disappointed noise issued forth from the drifter, and the blond man looked at his own watch with a slightly panicked expression. "Golly, you're right! I'm runnin' way behind myself, I got carried away listenin' to y'all."

Saying their goodbyes, the mercenaries left the bar and stepped into the quickly cooling air, the sky starting to darken noticeably on the horizon. Engineer steered the wobbly Demoman towards the truck, while Sniper simply dragged the passed-out Scout over bodily and dumped him on a pile of canvas in the back.

Watching Engineer adjust the two drunks in the pickup bed for the drive back to their base, Sniper absently patted his various pockets until he located a crumbled cigarette carton in the depths of his vest. Pulling one battered cancer stick out and lodging it in the corner of his mouth, he began searching again for his matches when a voice behind him said "Oh, lemme get that for y'all."

Turning, Sniper blinked at the cigarette lighter in front of his face, held up by the politely-smiling blond man with glasses. He silently nodded at him once, leaning into the flame as it flickered into life.

"Just wanted to say thanks again," the man said bashfully. "For all the stories."

"Awr, it ain't that big a deal, seriously. I—" Sniper paused, and his expression darkened. His hand shot out and gripped the other man's wrist, bringing the lighter in front of his face again. He stared at it, and his expression darkened further. The sudden haziness in the air around the arm and the feel of cloth in his grip where it shouldn't be didn't help, either.

He released the man, straightening to his full, actually rather notable height. Sniper's face was now angry, and his voice barely restrained. "That's an awfully familiar lookin' lighter ya got there. _Mate_."

The other man was remarkably calm about the angry mercenary in front of him. "Oh yeah, really? I don't think it's _that_ special, dunno why y'all're so mad," he said mildly.

"You better not be who I think y'are," Sniper growled.

Glancing nonchalantly down both ends of the street, the stranger reached into a pants pocket and pulled out an all-too-recognizable cigarette case, opening it expertly with one hand. "That depends," he said as he selected an all-too-recognizable long, slim cigarette and placed it delicately in his mouth, "on just who you think I am. Mate."

"Is everything okay over here, fellas?" Engineer had wandered over from the pickup truck, eyeing the two of them with suspicious caution. Sniper was glaring at the other man with his fists clenched, and Engineer could sense trouble. He looked at the blond man and did a small double-take. He had abandoned all pretense, and was watching them with great amusement as he took a drag on his cigarette, his usual pose and mannerisms looking strange coupled with his current disguise.

"What the _hell_ you doin' here, Spy," Engineer hissed under his breath. "Did you stow away in my truck?"

"Bloody Spy, spyin' on us!" Sniper sputtered. He was starting to quiver with rage, it was like there was no escaping the nonsense, no matter what he did or where he went.

"Yes, so terrible, I bought you all drinks and made pleasant conversation. Dear me, I should be ashamed," said Spy dryly. He'd dropped the rural accent, but the voice was still different, adding to the oddness of the whole scene.

"Answer the question, ya spook!" Sniper tried to move forward, but Engineer stepped partially in front of him, a warning hand on his arm. "The hell ya follow us here for? Why you spyin' on us?"

"Oh _please_. I will admit to, ah, _hitchin' a ride with y'all_, but I am here on my own business. You may leave without me, I am not returning tonight, and will make my way back eventually."

"Oh we may, eh? Y'got a lotta gall, Frenchie."

"If you're here for somethin' else, why all the smoke an' mirrors?" Engineer asked. "Why muck around with us when you could've just been plain about it? Just come up and _say_ somethin' if you wanna talk."

"Spoken like a man who pretends like he knows me," Spy replied, with that faint tinge of sadness in his voice that always perplexed Sniper. It vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. "I will not keep you more, return to the base before Heavy eats up everything in the messhall. You do not want to go hungry, yes?"

"Ya keep dodgin' questions, Frenchie. If yer so _busy_, why'd ya waste yer time with us?" Sniper had _other_ things he wanted to ask as well.

"Good question. Confidential, alas." Spy glanced down at his watch, frowning. "_Very_ good question, as I am running terribly late now and with such a reaction. Late for a very important date, as they say. Adieu."

And with that curt reply, Spy cloaked. Swearing, Sniper shoved past Engineer and grabbed at the now-empty air. Turning in circles, he tried to listen for the telltale footsteps, but all he heard was snoring from the pickup. He looked at Engineer, who merely shrugged in resignation.

The drive back to the base was silent. Engineer drove with an expression of deep thought on his face, though Sniper didn't notice too much as he was in such a dark mood again. This seemed to be happening more and more frequently lately. The pleasant afternoon had been ruined, knowing now how much of it hadn't been as it seemed. He was _this close_ to writing _such _an angry letter to their superiors.

The worst part was that in the midst of all his anger, there was confusion and other feelings he couldn't identify. Spy, disguised, had shown a great deal of interest in what he had to say about his homeland and early life. How much of it was genuine he didn't know, but it had seemed so at the time. Sniper had been pleased by the interest. Somebody had been fascinated by _him_. And then it had turned out to be Spy. If he wasn't lying. These thoughts and others involving recent events seesawed back and forth in his mind, muddling into one big mess.

It just made him angrier.


	5. Chapter 5

Monday morning rolled around, and Spy was nowhere to be found.

Sniper and the rest hadn't expected to see him on Sunday, between his comments on business in town and from past experience. And when they had all lined up for the start of a new work week and he _still_ wasn't there, that didn't feel unusual either. Spy _loved_ dramatic entrances. Soldier merely humphed and hrmphed to himself as they waited for the alarms, and once they sounded, off to work they went.

But the clock ticked on, hour following hour, and Sniper began to notice something was off. The Administrator always gave them updates at regular intervals, letting the Team know which RED had done what, or if one of them had been killed. It helped them plan and regroup more efficiently. But sometime around noon, he realized that Spy's name hadn't been said once the whole time. No backstabs, no intelligence captures, not even any reports of his death.

After noticing this, Sniper found himself listening intently to the updates from then on. Maybe he'd just missed some? But no, the afternoon passed, and Spy's name continued to be absent from the Administrator's transceiver-broadcast comments. Whenever there was a free minute he used his scope to peer about the battlefield, trying to catch a glimpse of the familiar pinstripes. Even the BLUs noticed his absence, a few of them glancing over their shoulders constantly, wondering if he was toying with them.

Sniper also wondered. Bloody spook hadn't really turned coward finally, had he? Maybe the business in town had been more serious than he'd thought. Not that it mattered much to him personally. The Team not getting the support from Spy it needed in certain situations was a definite issue, but it was no skin off _his_ nose. He blinked, and growled a little as he rubbed the scar. Let Spy do what he liked, Soldier would enjoy yelling at him later. _If_ he came back.

He frowned. That particular thought lingered in his mind, and a queer feeling materialized in his gut. It'd be strange, not having the Spy around anymore, either replaced by another or the spot just left vacant. The man had been doing his best to annoy the piss out of him, but he realized he'd actually grown used to Spy's constant presence.

The rifle's telescope seemed to creep up to eye level of its own accord, and Sniper resumed scanning the battlefield for his teammate. To hell with Soldier, _he_ at least wanted to have a good yell at Spy over all that had been going on.

That queer feeling that seemed to grow as the day wore on was probably just from the Jarate pills.

.

He didn't have to wait long for his answer after all. Returning at the end of the day, Sniper heard the Soldier ranting and raving over in the messhall. Certainly hadn't taken him long to start up, never did. It was a fifty-fifty chance of him even having a _target_ for his yelling, as sometimes it seemed like the very air itself had offended him.

But Sniper had a fairly good idea of who was probably in there with Soldier right now, and he quickly moved down the hall to see. And there was Spy.

He seemed to be ignoring the Soldier quite well, considering the angry man was standing three feet away and bellowing at the top of his lungs. Spy merely sat sideways at the table, legs crossed, occasionally sipping away at a small cup of tea. He looked extremely tired.

"…White flag and gone home, you got a lotta nerve coming back here you skinny crouton, I oughtta run you up a flagpole with your…"

"_Vhat_ is going on in here?"

Sniper jumped slightly, he hadn't heard Medic come up behind him with all the ranting going on. The older German man had a deep frown and crossed arms, and looked pointedly at Spy. "Vell?" he asked.

"Just the usual abuse," Spy replied, shrugging one shoulder intricately. "He enjoys it so, I am loathe to stop him."

"Vhe-"

"I was sick," Spy interrupted calmly. "One of those short day-viruses, I am sure you are familiar. It developed while I was taking care of something in a neighboring town this past weekend, and delayed my return. I have already contacted the Administrator with apologies."

"Lies, filthy lies!" Soldier snapped. "I bet he was laughing it up with the BLUs, betraying all our hard-earned secrets to them!"

Spy threw up his hands. "Ah, you have caught me red-handed so to speak, _mon ami_! That is _exactly_ what I was doing." He barely managed to duck sideways in time to dodge the madly-swinging shovel.

"_Stop. It._" The pure exasperation in those two words was so strong that Soldier actually did check his next swing, stepping back a pace or two. "I do not need zhis right now. I believe him, ve shall see vhat zhe Administrator says later. Benefit of zhe doubt for now."

"I can assure you, dear Helmet," Spy said as he straightened up, "I was just…delayed."

It was often difficult to see Soldier's eyes under that aforementioned helmet of his, but there was a definite impression that he was glaring at Spy from underneath. He squared his shoulders and elbowed past Medic and Sniper, leaving the messhall muttering under his breath. Medic shook his head at his retreating back, and then turned back to the Spy. "Und now?"  
"Now, I am fine," Spy said. "I shall be on the battlefield tomorrow, doctor, come rain or shine." Medic nodded, and went on his way.

Sniper hadn't said anything during all of this; he'd only watched, quietly. It was what he did for a living, after all. The others gone, he regarded Spy with raised eyebrows. He was still sipping his damn tea. Had he really been sick? He _did_ look more weary and out of sorts than usual, but maybe it was just the long trip back. Everything a Spy did was suspect.

Spy finally finished his tea, and rested his chin on his hand, regarding the empty cup. Then he finally seemed to notice the Sniper that was still standing in the doorway, and his attention shifted.

The two men looked at each other. His lower face hidden by glove, Spy's eyes seemed to bore into Sniper again, like a gimlet through wood. He just sat there, watching him. Expression unreadable, with just a touch of something else at the edge, as always. For a moment he looked like he was about to say something, but instead he remained silent. Then Spy quickly turned his face away, looking down, and did not turn back.

The move was so unexpected that Sniper's own words died on his tongue, and his just-opened mouth snapped shut. For some reason the urge to unload his grievances had retreated, the oddness in the pit of his stomach returning in force. Feeling very awkward standing there all of a sudden, he shuffled backwards out the door and retreated to his van.

.

Piss, thought Sniper, I fergot t'buy more yarn.

He shifted position on his box and shot the BLU Pyro in the leg, sending them toppling off a neighboring building's catwalk with a muffled scream. The piece of hard candy he was sucking on clinked against his teeth as he scanned the area for more targets.

It was unfortunate being a Sniper who smoked; the cherry-red tip of a lit cigarette or even just the smoke itself made for bad location giveaways. Gnawing on candy helped stave off the urges, at least for a little while. The latest piece had been from the new bag he'd recently bought, reminding him of the trip to town and the much-needed yarn he'd neglected to buy.

Ah, well. He'd just go back this weekend or so—

The sound of a _shunk_ and a guttural, cut-off wail directly behind him filled his ears, causing him to nearly choke on his peppermint. The feel of a limp arm bouncing off his back out of nowhere definitely did nothing good for his heart. Leaping up with a gasp, Sniper turned as quickly as possible, grabbing wildly for his kukri. It was anything but a dignified action, but dignity could wait.

The BLU Spy lay face down on the floor of the nest, blood blooming across his suit jacket from the stab wound in his back. And a little behind him, RED Spy stood carefully wiping his butterfly knife on a rag.

"Tch, you should get your ears checked. Lucky for you I was here, eh?"

The heart-pounding fear Sniper had felt immediately changed to full-out indignant rage. "_You!_"

"Clearly."

"What the hell d'you think yer _doin'_? I coulda gotten that Spy by myself!"

"If by 'gotten' you mean 'stabbed to death by'. Two Spies uncloak directly behind you, not a muscle is moved, it takes a corpse to get your sluggish form grasping for a weapon." Spy plucked a fresh cigarette from its case and lit it in one smooth motion. "Really now, all this sitting around with coffee and candy all day can't be good for you, old man." His gun-metal blues swivelled to a jar in the dark corner. "Among other things."

Sniper narrowed his eyes. "Oh, don't you even _start_, mate. Yer one to talk, smokin' on the job all the damn time!" He shook the kukri in Spy's face. "Don't you be lecturin' me about _nothin'_!"

The Spy puffed on the long, slim cigarette, brow furrowing darkly. "Some gratitude. Next time I shall leave you to be pricked full of holes."

"Just shut up, you! I don't need yer help, I don't want it! I don't know why yer fussin' over me like some soppy nursemaid, but quit it!"

"Nurse maid? _Nurse maid_? You 'ave zome nerve, bushman!" Suddenly they were several feet apart, yelling in each other's faces.

"I've got nerve nothin', _you've_ got nerve!"

"You are ungrateful! You are petulant! Y—" Spy would have said more, but a bullet came zinging through the window they'd completely forgotten about and stopped him quite literally dead with a wet gurgle.

Sniper toppled backwards over the box he'd sat on earlier, swearing, his ass hitting the floor with a _thump_. Slouching below the vantage point of the window, he sat and gaped at the space that the dead BLU had formerly occupied, and which now held RED Spy.

Blood pooled rapidly around the Spy's ruined neck. The eyes, so often focused sharply on someone, now held a blank, thousand-yard stare that was quickly dimming. Sniper had seen plenty of dead bodies before, having made some of them himself, but something about the dead Spy's empty face made his stomach twist.

He sat there, staring and staring and not knowing why. After a minute or so RED Spy's body vanished into thin air, and the puddle of blood left behind began to ever-so-slowly shrink. This signaled the start of the respawn process. He hadn't understood a lick of the technobabble Engineer had spouted at him a ways back, trying to explain it all to the rest of the Team. Something about conservation of energy and matter transference. Or teleportation. Something like that.

When the last of the blood had disappeared, Sniper continued staring at the empty floor for a few moments. Then he snapped out of it, blinking and shaking his head. His startled, numb expression reset into one filled with rage, and he grabbed his dropped rifle and leapt up. Flinging himself past the window, he let off a shot without stopping to scope or even get a good look at who he was shooting. The pained squawk off in the distance meant he'd hit _someone_, at least.

Hallways, stairs, walkways, gaps between buildings; Sniper ran through them all without stopping, long legs pumping. For someone so lanky, it surprised people that the bushman wasn't faster than he was. When fully outside, he ran determinedly past the raging battle back towards the RED base. He heard Medic yelling something at him, but the words were so much gibberish. He kept running. At one point someone dressed in blue tried to bar his way, but he kicked them repeatedly in the shins until they left him alone. He kept running.

Eventually he reached the RED respawn room. He skidded to a stop in front of the door, wheezing hoarsely. His lungs and heart were in agony, his right leg throbbed, and a dull pain in both sides of his lower back signalled that his abused kidneys didn't appreciate the jostling either. Maybe he _did_ need to watch his health a little better.

Bending over to catch his breath, hand on knee, Sniper checked his watch. It had been ten minutes; five minutes left to go on the respawn.

Those five minutes seemed to last a million years. He kept trying not to imagine something going wrong. The respawn delaying; the respawn not working at all. The respawn healing incorrectly, the bullet wound through the neck turning into something debillitating and permanent. As if on cue the scar on his face began to itch; he rubbed at it fretfully.

But he heard the clicking and whirring of machinery through the door, and peering through the fogged glass he could see the outline of the device lowering from the ceiling onto one of the tables. During battle hours like this people could only _leave_ the respawn, they could not enter it. A safety precaution in case the enemy managed to get this deep inside the fortress. Sniper had to wait in the hall.

A few minutes after all the mechanical noises had stopped, the door slowly creaked open. Spy came out, what flesh that was visible looking pale and queasy, and shut it behind him.

Sniper stood up straight, and took a deep breath. It was probably because the respawn sickness had him in its grasp, but Spy actually paused at the sight of him with a plainly embarrased look on his face before continuing on down the hall right past him, walking unsteadily.

He found his voice, and followed the Spy. "Now just a damn minute!"

Spy kept walking, and pinched the bridge of his nose with a shaky hand. "No time to be talking now, much to be done. Let us just go."

"No," Sniper said angrily, grabbing the Frenchman's shoulder. Spy blearily looked at the other man's hand like it was some alien creature. "_No_. I don't know what sort of bullshit game yer playin' here, Spy, but I want it to stop. _All_ of it."

Spy brushed the taller man's hand off his shoulder with a little flick of the wrist, and kept going. "I do not know what you are on about. Do not do that, you will smudge the cloth with dirt."

"You know exactly what I'm talkin' about!" Sniper yelled. He hurried forward so he could do so right next to Spy, walking sideways and shaking an irritated finger in his face. "Stealin' my stuff! Hangin' around me like some ruddy mother hen after I got me scar, like I can't take care of myself anymore! I may not like respawn but that don't mean I want _you_ doin' anything! Just leave me alone!"

Infuriatingly, Spy never stopped moving during this. His pace had quickened slightly as the respawn effects slowly wore off, and he looked straight ahead with the usual carefully blank expression. "If you insist so strongly, I suppose I must _acquiesce_." And then, muttered under his breath, "Such a fuss over little nothings."

Sniper came to a halt, mouth hanging open. His fists balled so tight the knuckles went white, his mouth shut into a thin, angry line, and he began quivering with bottled fury as he resisted the urge to strangle the man right then and there. There was just no end to the outrage the Frenchman brought about.

No, not strangle. Maybe he wasn't mad enough to strangle a teammate. But he definitely felt a _punch_ was in order, and was preparing to do just that when another thought struck him. Eyes locked on the back of the Spy's head, a malicious grin spread across his face. Summoning all his years of experience tracking and fighting twitchy, wary animals in the bush, Sniper lunged forward and yanked the balaclava off Spy's head in one quick motion.

Spy gasped, and his hands jerked up towards his head instinctively. Sniper had a split-second's view of wavy black hair plastered down by the mask, and Spy cloaked. Sniper took a step back, leaning against the wall and looking around wildly, the balaclava gripped tightly in one hand.

"Ain't so funny no more when it's you, is it mate?" he said, laughing harshly.

"Give it back!" a voice hissed out of the empty air somewhere to his left.

"Wossa matter, spook, you can dish it out but ya can't take it?" Oh, this was so, so sweet. Vengeance a long time coming.

"A mask iz nothing like a damned mug!" Spy's voice spat, this time from his right. "You drink coffee out of zometheeng else for a few hours and it iz ze end of ze world? A mask iz integral to a Spy's work! To 'is very _life_!"

"It's still _mine_. Not yers to be takin'." He felt something bump against his arm and snatch at the mask, and he elbowed Spy off. "An' stuff like my vest is still important." Sidling over a little, he raised his long, lanky arm as high as he could reach, dangling the mask. "Mebbe I'll go hide it fer a few hours. Or I'll give it back now, if ya say please."

"Give it back! Give it back now!" Spy's voice sounded more and more urgent each time.

"Say _please_."

And suddenly there was a sharp pain on his arm, and a tiny trickle of blood began working its way down the skin. Sniper grunted in surprise, jerking his arm back, and felt a pricking pressure in his side. He froze. "You _wouldn't_."

"Give it back!" Spy's voice had become a feral hiss.

"Or what, ya shank yer own goddamn teammate? It's a ruttin' _mask_!"

"_Give it back!_" The pressure increased.

Sniper flung the mask down on the floor. "There! I hope ya smother in it, ya slimey snake!"

There was a brief shimmer in the air, and Spy's arm materialized out of a sudden hazy blotch near the ground and snatched the balaclava up. Then it disappeared just as quickly.

Sniper watched the spot carefully, his eyes and ears straining. He couldn't tell if Spy was still there. "I meant what I said, Spy," he mumbled, pressing a few fingers to the cut on his arm to stop the slight bleeding. "No more bullshit."

The hallway remained silent.


	6. Chapter 6

Nearly two weeks passed, and the two RED mercenaries avoided each other as much as their jobs would allow. There was the occasional nod or communication during briefings and their daily battles, official moments that couldn't be avoided, but otherwise Sniper ignored Spy and vice versa. This was generally fine by Sniper, as he felt it made his life easier. Spy, however, appeared to be more vicious and temperamental than ever, lapsing into odd moody silences half the time and starting petty arguments with the rest of the Team in the other.

Much as he was enjoying the break from Spy's attentions, Sniper occasionally wondered if he really _had_ gone too far with the whole mask incident. Masks _were_ important to Spies, admittedly, and like Spy said he had never taken anything of much actual value during his escapades.

Then Sniper would remember the small cut on his arm, scowl, and continue ignoring the pinstriped bastard.

But it finally came to a head, as most things do. It was a gloomy, overcast Thursday, on which RED had lost particularly badly. Very, _very_ badly. Worse than they ever had, possibly. The entire Team was moving slowly and carefully during dinner that evening, trying not to aggravate their pounding headaches and queasy stomachs further.

Sniper leaned against the wall with his slouch hat off, the cool surface feeling good against his neck and arms as he waited for his turn to cook. For all his precautions and efforts, Sniper had _still_ been obliterated with the rest during the day's match, waking up to the clinical white ceiling that had started haunting his dreams lately.

Despite there not being a single problem of any sort since his one "delay", the Sniper found himself becoming increasingly paranoid about the respawn room. He'd died & respawned several times since, everybody on the Team had, but it still bothered him. Who could predict when something else might happen? The horrible possibilities were endless. So as if the respawn sickness wasn't enough to deal with, he now had jitters, suspicion and moodiness layered on top whenever it happened.

Sniper shut his eyes, listening to the mild hubbub of the room, trying to drown it all out. He stood there aching, hoping the coolness of the smooth wall would soak some of that bad vibe up, allowing him to calmly fix some food and enjoy what he could of the evening. He didn't want this feeling flaring up or spreading to others.

And then, as he was wont to do, Soldier decided to speak up.

The man hadn't eaten any of his dinner yet, just pushed it savagely around the plate with his fork, which was slowly bending with the way he gripped it so tightly. Tapping it on the plate a few times in angry thought, Soldier finally muttered something under his breath. "R'pitiful."

"Wa' wassat?" Demoman slurred next to him, well into his evening Scrumpy. "Dinnae qui' catchit."

"I SAID WE WERE PITIFUL!" Soldier boomed, finally bending the fork in half with his fist. The Pyro jumped in alarm, knocking over a glass. "I'VE NEVER SEEN SUCH SORRY EXCUSES FOR SOLDIERS IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!"

Soldier was glaring all around the room now, looking each man in the eye as he ranted. Or so it felt, nobody could really tell with the helmet. "HUMILIATING! DISGUSTING! MY ELDERLY ARTHRITIC MOTHER COULD'VE DONE BETTER THAN ALL YOU MAGGOTS PUT TOGETHER TODAY!"

The Heavy calmly shoveled another massive forkful into his mouth, unperturbed by the other man's yelling. "Is just bad luck today," he said, spraying a few crumbs. "Ve do better tomorrow. Is not like BLU babies have no bad days. It go both ways."

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS HIPPIE PINKO COMMIE TALK I AM HEARING! YOU BETTER WORK ON THAT, YA RUSSKIE, OR I'LL WORK ON IT FOR YOU."

Medic rolled his eyes. "Heavy is _right_, dummkopf. Zhese tings happen. Ve learn und move on, und do better."

"Yeah man, I gave it everythin' I got today!" Scout said angrily. "I never do anythin' half-assed!"

There was a snort from the corner of the room. Spy was there, slowly stirring a mug of some sort of soup he'd just finished preparing. Blowing at the steam, he gave the Scout an amused look. "But of course you do not, young man. You threw your little white ball around with such _passion_, I was impressed. But alas, perhaps you will have better luck with a man's weapons tomorrow."

"Hey, don't you be knockin' my ball!"

"The crouton's right, for once! War is the pastime of _men_, son! Running around with a baseball like that is a waste of your _and_ our time! And probably even the BLUs'!"

The Scout glared down at his plate. Demoman wobbled slightly as he raised a mollifying hand. "S'ain't likit matters, aye? May's'ell bea game, th' way'sit goin' noo."

"Ja, it does feel like zhat sometimes, doesn't it?" sighed Medic. "It just goes und goes." Heavy, sitting next to him, nodded solemnly.

"Just because something does not feel quite right," Spy said, drinking his soup, "It is no excuse for incompentence."

Sniper's eyes snapped open at that. He straightened up slightly, hat under his arm. "An' that makes you Mr. Perfect, does it?"

The Spy continued drinking his soup. "Non, but _I_ at least understand seriousness in matters such as this."

"Oh yeah, I've heard you laughin' on the field time to time, _real_ serious there, mate. Even more serious when yer takin' people's things, too."

Spy frowned. "You _do_ hold a grudge."

Sniper straightened up fully, forgetting the wall. "Grudge? A grudge? You takin' shit an' bein' all snide about it is a _grudge_?"

Spy sat his mug of soup down on a nearby counter, and looked the Sniper full in the eyes. "Considering this is long ago and forgotten, with my agreement? Yes, it is."

"Ya bloody spook! That don't mean yer all innocent an' perfect now! Always runnin' away from everythin', as usual!"

"Excuse? Running away? Did I not die today with everyone else, yes? I fight just as much as any man," he said, frowning. "And more than some," he added.

"Now, fellas—" Engineer began.

"Are you implyin' somethin', spook?" Sniper clutched his hat like a vise. "You, of all people?"

"I imply nothing, you always assume! Always! You are paranoid!"

"Well can ya blame me? A snake like you, always creepin' around? Yer as bad as a BLU, mebbe even worse! I wouldn't trust ya as far as I could throw ya!"

"I doubt you could do that, _monsieur_, considering how you sit around all day as I do real work!"

"Erm," said Demoman.

"_Real_ work?" spat Sniper. The men were moving closer and closer together with each insult. "Ya call prancin' around in a great pink suit like a nance work? I bet I _could_ throw you, ya skinny l'il nit!"

"Pink? _Pink?_ Eet is _BURGUNDY_, you uncultured oaf! Burgundy, like wine! Take off your rideeculous glasses an' look around you before you zay anytheeng else, eediot!"

"Oh yeah, oh yeah? Insults now, eh? That's _real_ culture, that is! Don't you talk about smarts to me, mate, I ain't the one gettin' blown away 'cos I can't put my cigarette out fer five minutes!"

"You eensulted first! An' I can stop anytime I like!"

The men were maybe two feet apart from each other now, red in the face and practically screaming. Spy's composure was completely gone, and most of the Team had never heard so many words leave Sniper's mouth in such a short period of time. All they could do was watch, stunned, as the men shouted each other down, the argument careening off the rails in such a way that even Soldier was bewildered into silence.

"Yer a liar an' a poser, all talk an' no doin'! Yer so fulla hot air it's a wonder ya don't just float off!"

"High talk, comeeng from one az you! Bragging about buffalo thees, an' corpse zat! You zit an' you sleep, zat is all! Lazy!" The Spy's accent had broken free and was running amuck all over the place. "_Lazy!_"

Heavy had been chewing the same mouthful of food for a while now, brow deeply furrowed as his eyes shot back and forth between the two men like he was watching a tennis match, the fork halfway up completely forgotten. The Pyro was wringing their hands silently; Scout's lower lip had begun to quiver.

"Sniping takes concentration, silence, patience! Ya don't just run back an' forth like an idiot! You aim an' wait fer the right moment! Like a _professional_!" Sniper snarled, jabbing a finger into Spy's chest.

The Frenchman bared his teeth, jabbing a thin finger in the air in front of the other man's nose. "Do not zpeak to _me_ about professional. You do not even _begin_ to know! _Jar man!_"

"I know lots more'n you think, Spy, not that ya even look past yer pointy nose at anythin' that ain't all about _you_!"

"Oh, an' again weeth the personal! Does eet give you pleasure, you upright equine? An' you scoff about _me_ being professional! I theenk y-"

"_Stop fighting, please stop fighting! Just stop it!_"

Spy and Sniper jerked to a halt, and everyone in the room turned to Scout. The young man was clutching his head in both hands and looking down, his face frozen in a wide-eyed look of embarrassment. Very slowly, he released his head and sat upright, avoiding looking anyone in the eye. If he'd been any redder he could've passed for the Team mascot. "Shit," he mumbled.

The interruption was like a shock of cold water to the arguing men, and as the other six-and-a-half pairs of eyes turned back to them and stared, they too felt embarrassed. They looked at each other, realizing now just what had been coming out of their mouths, and looked away.

"W-well, um," Sniper stuttered, holding his hat in both hands. Spy grabbed up the mug of now-lukewarm soup and went back to drinking it, eyes locked on the wall and his back turned resolutely to the rest of the room. "Any…anybody else got any grievances? Get 'em all out, we'll all feel better?" Sniper half-grinned, weakly.

"No, zhat's…zhat's quite alright," Medic said, in a faraway little voice.

"Hrmphmph," Pyro agreed. Their fingers were tangled together tighter than a knot.

"That's…that's good," said Sniper. He was flushed and hot and hoarse and wanted out _now_, he hadn't felt this small and ridiculous in a very long time. He jammed his hat on his head, and shuffled over to the refrigerator. Reaching inside he grabbed the first thing he touched without looking, and nodded at the others. "Guess I'll, uh, just go an' eat, an', an' read a book or somethin'. Make a n-nice cookfire. Later, lads."

Several of the other REDs murmured goodbyes back at him, still staring and confused. A few others were looking carefully at their plates or at the wall. Scout said something about readin' shit or whatever too, and exited the messhall post-haste.

Sniper looked at the Spy. He was still standing in the corner, facing away from everyone, grasping the mug and spoon so tightly you could see the knuckles popping up under his gloves. Engineer was looking at him too, his mouth a thin, tight line and his expression as unreadable as Spy's usually was.

The Australian fled the room as quickly as dignity would allow, and several halls over he yanked at his hat, swearing under his breath and banging his head as quietly as possible against the wall. He felt humiliated, he couldn't believe he'd acted like that in front of so many fellow professionals. He had no idea what the hell had come over him, he was more angry at himself than he was at Spy.

Forehead pressed heavily against the wall, he finally pulled himself together enough to look at what he'd taken from the fridge. It was a little Tupperware container of mushy leftover macaroni. Sniper sighed. Well, he'd just get some water from a pump and heat it over the fire in his #1 SNIPER mug or something. Did he still have his mess kit stored in the camper? Food was food, he'd spent enough time out in the wilderness to not be picky.

Shoulders sagging and thumbs hooked in pockets, Sniper slowly returned to his camper van and avoided the base for the rest of the day. This was one of the reasons he liked being alone so much; you never had to worry about embarrassing yourself if there was nobody else around.

.

Stretching in the cold morning sun, Sniper's boot bumped into a discarded beer bottle as he surveyed his 'front yard'. Bottles, dog ends and paper everywhere. Hm. He _had_ been lax in the upkeep of his living area lately. He usually wasn't this bad, you learn very quickly not to leave things laying about when there's wild animals around. This soft, civilized living was spoiling him.

He wandered off across the RED grounds, searching until he located a reasonably sturdy cardboard box. Dumping its few contents on a nearby shelf, he took it back to his camper and plopped it down on the earth. Then he methodically made his way across his little personal space, placing the gathered trash inside.

"_Zut alors_, it _cleans_."

Sniper sagged. After the previous day of complete embarrassed avoidance and silence both during and after work, he had hoped that it would continue for as long as possible. In vain, apparently.

He chucked a cracked jar into the box, then turned to face Spy with his hands on his hips. "What."

Spy was leaning against the nearby stack of crates, cigarette case open and a mildly curious look upon his face. Selecting a fresh cigarette, he popped it into his mouth and motioned at the Sniper to continue cleaning. Sniper continued to stand there instead. Sighing, Spy considered him for a moment, then held the case out before him.

"Do not let me interupt, bushman. You partake, yes? Here, have a dignified smoke for just the once."

The Sniper blinked at the case. One side was an example of the newfangled technology Spy used in his trickery, but the other side of the little box held a clip of half a dozen long, slim cigarettes. He couldn't believe Spy was actually offering him one.

Hesitantly, Sniper reached out with a dusty hand and pulled one free. Then he took a big step backwards, keeping an eye on Spy as he pulled out his own battered book of matches and lit the cigarette.

It had an unusual spiciness to it, one that he couldn't quite place, and a richness in flavor he wasn't used to. Sniper held it up, inspecting it, then shrugged. Damn fancy thing. He continued smoking it and went back to work.

"Did you not wear that shirt yesterday?"

"Oh, don't you start up on me 'bout cleanliness," Sniper grumbled. "I don't need t'hear this from a _Frenchman_, of all people. I'm pickin' this up first is all, I don't keep the ruddy showers in me camper."

Spy watched him clean for a while, neither man saying anything. Sniper wondered if he was trying to apologize. _That_ would be a first.

"I have not been myself lately, I am afraid."

Sniper paused, hand on bottle, and looked up at the Spy. He was gazing off to the side at something beyond the fence. A steady stream of smoke flowed from his mouth and nostrils. "I hope she is well," he said quietly.

"Er, come again?" said Sniper, still crouched. He wasn't sure if Spy was talking to him or just thinking out loud.

Spy glanced at him briefly, then turned his attention back to whatever was beyond the fence. "_Mademoiselle_. I have ended with her."

The BLU Scout's mum, Sniper remembered. The Team was aware that Spy had been involved with her, and varied from indifference to mistrust in their response. Scout wasn't sure how he felt; it was a mixture of fiendish glee at the pain of his rival and paranoia that it might happen to _him_, too.

Sniper hadn't paid it much mind himself, and struggled for a response. "Oh. Well…that should make the Soldier happy." That probably wasn't a good one.

Spy smiled wanly, still not looking at him. "As if anything would make Soldier happy. Or more trustful."

He was unsure why Spy was talking to him like this, and about something so personal. Spy was secretive, it was his _job_ to be secretive, and it went against all previous experience with him to boot. Sniper continued out of pure curiousity. "So…why'd it end?"

Spy didn't answer right away. Sniper threw the bottle in the box with a _clink_, and turned to a pile of old newspapers. Finally, Spy said, "You ever watch any of those ridiculous Bond movies?"

Change of subject? "James Bond? Uh…think I saw that one with all the gold a few years ago on a long flight. That Connery chap, right?"

"_Goldfinger_, yes. Do you recall how that movie began, amigo?"

"Crikey, Spy, I don't remember somethin' like that. There was snorklin' an' gin rummy an' a dead lady in gold paint…" Spy turned and looked at him pointedly. "What, the dead lady? I…Oh. _Oh_." Realization sunk in.

"Indeed," Spy said. More smoke. "Those spy movies are utter trash, but the part about dead loved ones is…fairly accurate. I may kill people for a living, and quite well, but _mademoiselle's_ would be a death that would linger heavily."

"Strewth. You ain't had dead ladyfriends before, have ya?"

"_Non_. But there have been one or two 'close calls', as one would say. Certain people are quite vengeful towards Spies, and I would not put it past some old target or even BLU itself to attempt such a thing. Even with the son in their employ."

For the first time since he had known him, Sniper actually felt a pang of true sympathy for the Spy. Then something hit him. "…That wasn't what yer little 'business trip' was about, was it?"

"Hm. Well-guessed." Spy smiled a little, looking up at the sky while lost in thought. His voice got quieter with each sentence. "One last little fling with _ma petite chou-fleur_ before our separate ways. She said a nice gentleman who owns a shop in Back Bay has taken a fancy to her. I do hope he treats her fine."

Sniper wasn't sure what to do or say next, so he just kept fumbling with the trash. He was almost done now, so he took his time with the last few pieces, hoping Spy would go away soon. He still wasn't too happy with the man, these strange little gestures aside, and that queer feeling in the gut had returned out of nowhere. He just wanted to be alone.

Suddenly Spy turned sharply in his direction, looking him in the eyes. "And what are _your_ thoughts on romance, bushman? Pining for any 'sheilas' back home, yes?"

Sniper gawped at him, his arms full of clutter. "That's a right personal question there, mate!"

The grey-blue eyes bored hard. "Well? If _I_ can share, surely _you_ can share."

"I-" Sniper felt himself becoming very flustered, and extremely annoyed. He should've known it wouldn't be very long before Spy started his aggravation up again. "I'm a busy man, Spy! I ain't got time fer this!" He slammed the rest of the trash into the box, making a dusty racket. "Though if ya _must_ know, I'm a confirmed bachelor, thank you very much!"

"Is that by choice, or just how life turned out?"

.

Sniper lay on his old deck chair, the cloudless desert sky filling his vision. It was a cool afternoon, the first hint of the coming winter, but the sun still beat down and added a certain amount of warmth to the areas not in shade.

The Spy had left hours ago. Sniper had since thrown away the box of trash, showered, eaten, chatted with Demoman about some rugby news he'd come across and patched a hole in one of his socks. And still Spy's words lingered in his mind.

Sniper cursed him. He hadn't thought about nonsense like love and romance in a very long time, it had no place on the battlefield. He _was_ a busy man, a professional and an assassin, and he enjoyed his alone time. He did very, very well alone, and actually tended to prefer it to being amongst people.

And still the thoughts refused to go away, no matter how hard he tried to distract himself.

He reflected on his past romantic escapades. There weren't many, come to think of it. He remembered the cute, plump little girl in secondary school that had liked him, and how he'd been so surprised and grateful that they'd fooled around in the bushes during the big graduation dance. He remembered the women of varying type that he'd come across in his travels across the world, who'd been eager to experience something as exotic as an Australian outdoorsman at least once in their lives.

It had rarely gone well. Sniper had always been awkward when it came to the small and personal; he still smarted at the memory of those disappointed and bored faces. But that had been random lust. Or maybe just _attempted_ lust.

All those little encounters…had there been anything genuine to them? He struggled to remember. Had anyone outside of his own family ever looked at him with honest affection, told him they'd loved him and really meant it? Had _he_ ever considered someone in that way? Even the Spy, ruddy bastard that he was, seemed capable of that genuine love. He recalled seeing him look at a photo of the BLU Scout's mother he'd stolen from their base, in passing, and how he'd never seen such a face on Spy before or since.

People talked about magic moments and sparks and euphoria when it came to love. People never _shut up_ about love, really. Well, he was just fine without it. He _treasured_ his alone time. Or so he told himself.

It quietly crept up on Sniper that maybe there were some important differences between being alone and being lonely, and whether one had replaced the other at some point.

The utter silence of the sleepy desert afternoon was suddenly deafening.

He needed to fill it. Sniper usually enjoyed silence, but for some reason it was now making him feel sick. Sick, and hollow. He didn't want to talk to anybody, yet he still needed urgently to make the silence go away. It was doing bad things to his thoughts.

Sniper leapt up from the rickety chair and ran to the base, saying a quick hello to the surprised teammates he passed without stopping. Reaching the pseudo-rec room, he looked under chairs and tables until he found the box he wanted. Heaving it up with a grunt, he took it all the way back to his camper van, opening the door with a firmly-placed Size 16 boot.

He slammed the door behind him, dropped the box on his little bed, and flung his hat across the camper. Make noise, fill the silence as much as possible. Don't think.

Opening the worn case, he carefully pulled out the small portable record player and motley stack of vinyl the Team shared amongst themselves. The records mostly belonged to Pyro, Scout and Engineer, with a few odds and ends that stuck out as belonging to someone like Medic or Demoman. They were free for all to use, though. Sniper had never bought any himself or felt the need to listen to them before, but he felt it now.

After setting up the record player he considered the albums, flipping through each one. He didn't feel like soaring orchestral operas or celtic folk music, and there was far too much rubbish with long-haired kids standing in fields or amongst odd abstract art on the cover. The dark-haired fellow in green shirt and suspenders made him nervous, and while he had nothing against those Beatle blokes he didn't feel like sorting out whatever statement they were making with that blank, empty cover.

_Nashville Skyline_. He remembered when Engineer had bought it, saying he was curious about what sort of country music that Dylan kid could make, and that he'd heard Johnny Cash was on it. Well, why not. He put the record on and slumped against the wall of his camper.

The first song crackled on. It didn't sound like anything amazing at first; the guitar playing was average at best, and the dueters weren't in sync with each other very well. Dylan's voice meshed oddly with Cash's.

_For she once was a true love of mine…_

And yet…there was a _warmth_ to the song, a warmth in its music and words that struck him in a peculiar way.

_I'm a-wonderin' if she remembers me at all…_

There was sadness, too. For all that was wrong with the singing, the words were plaintive, and all the nonsense about wind and coats and hair hit him hard. Faint memories and longing for something old and lost. It all worked, and he didn't know why.

_For that's the way I remember her best…_

Sniper felt that odd sick feeling in his gut twist hard, and by the time the song was ending, the hollowness suddenly seemed to fill every part of him. True love of mine. He wondered if there was anybody out there that would remember _him_ with such longing.

The next song began, a perky instrumental that he'd heard Engineer whistle now and again, but it was too late, the damage was done. Sniper was actually glad to be all alone right then, because it meant nobody saw him slowly bury his face in his shaking hands and try to muffle the wracking sobs that made his body shudder.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time he'd finished listening to the album, flipping the record over more than once, the early winter night had started creeping up along the horizon. It was getting dark in his camper, but Sniper didn't notice. He just sat propped against the wall, arms wrapped around his legs, staring into space.

The record made a low, occasionally skippy hiss as it spun on, waiting to be removed. _Nashville Skyline_ was a short album, but he'd managed to listen to it for several hours. Every time a lively, sometimes silly song had popped on during the first playthrough he'd thought that was that and he could turn it off, but it was always followed by another sad lament or subtle love song. It had made his mood seesaw, from low to lowest back to low. Nothing hit him quite as hard as that first song had, but they'd still packed a punch.

Sniper felt drained, exhausted. Like he'd just fought an entire day's battle all by himself, and lost. His head pounded, but not from the volume of the music. As a professional he'd always made a point of keeping his feelings under lock and key as much as possible, not letting anyting interfere with his work or his lifestyle. This was probably a good example of why.

He tried to be mad at himself over it, but he couldn't. He couldn't feel _anything_ right now, other than spent. All at once he wanted to talk to someone, unload his worries and doubts to them, and also to curl up in a small hole somewhere far away and never leave it. One negated the other and he was left with…nothing.

Wait, he did feel something. It was his right leg, pricking and aching like a Medic had shot it full of needles and slowly going numb. He cursed and stretched out as best as he could in the little camper, rubbing it back to life. Winter was coming, he needed to be more mindful of his health, including his leg. Bloody platypuses. That had definitely been a nasty lesson in Watch Your Step.

When his leg finally felt close to normal, he heaved himself up from the floor and shut the record player off, lifting the needle. He peered through the slits of the tiny window at the dark red on the horizon, rubbing his lower back with the knuckles of one fist as he stretched and shook out his legs one at a time, the other hand on the wall for balance.

He was stiffer than he'd anticipated. It made him feel old. Did respawn affect your aging? They'd debated it for a while, the Team, and had kept an eye on Medic's greying hair, much to his annoyance. The young Scout was watched as well, and he tried to deflect scrutinization off of himself and onto the Heavy with comments about weight and baldness. Eventually they'd decided that it did in fact extend lifespans, though they weren't sure by how much. It had been one of the little "maybe" hopes that kept some of them going during this endless fighting; the hope that despite all the endless pain and tedium, there was no time lost. Their lives would be waiting for them when it was all over, none the shorter.

This was no comfort to Sniper. It didn't matter if he hadn't aged a day since he'd signed up for this job, he was old when he'd started it and he'd be old when it was over. Well, maybe not _old_ old. But his youth was far behind him.

Less than two years away from forty. Less than two years away from his fifth decade of life. Christ. He didn't like to think about it. All his cousins were married with children, and had been for years. His parents never stopped reminding him and dropping hints. He couldn't blame them _too_ much, though. If _he_ was old, they were getting downright elderly. Their son was creeping ever closer to middle age and their hope of grandchildren got slimmer every year. That sort of stuff kept him up at night more than any bloody fighting ever did.

He wondered how he'd managed to brush off all that parental talk of children and settling down for all these years without also considering the romance part of it, like he was now. You couldn't have the former without the latter, afer all. Maybe it had become such a kneejerk reaction to just dismiss it the minute it came up, that he gave it no further thought. Or maybe it was just another part of how he'd convinced himself that being alone was best.

A new wave of the sickly hollowness hit him, and he braced himself with both hands. He bowed his head, wishing it away with all his might. It all came down to that black loneliness; it haunted everything. No loved ones, big or small. Nobody near and dear to remember him fondly when he was gone. Nothing waiting for him when it was all over. Just old age and emptiness.

And then he finally felt it, a trickle of anger at himself building and spreading. Not enough to completely change his mood and send him roaring off in determination, but enough to make him raise his face to the window and think a little.

This was a well-paying gig he was in. It was terrible and he regretted ever taking it on particularly dark nights of the soul, but it was paying more than all his previous sniping jobs combined. Several times over. He was a frugal, simple man, and had never spent his earnings on much of anything for himself. His first few paychecks had gone straight to his parents, in fact; they'd had mixed feelings about the origin of the money, but it had assured comfort for the rest of their lives.

Sniper tended to deposit his money straight away, never paying much attention to the details and getting on with his work, just taking out a bit here and there for absolute necessities. With the final check for this big RED job added in, he suspected that he was probably a millionaire. Maybe a multi-millionaire? It was more than enough for him to retire immediately and live very, very well for the remainder of his own life, at any rate.

This ignited a small spark of the much-wanted comfort and hope inside of him. It was very small, and could go out at any moment, but in such darkness it was as bright as a bonfire. He had quite a few years to go in his life, plenty of time to settle into a proper civilized lifestyle and find that special someone. Maybe try for a family. He read all the time about older gentlemen who'd started everything late in life. Just because he hadn't found it yet didn't mean he _never_ would. He glanced sideways at his spare trunk, sitting quietly near the foot of his bed.

The door of the camper van creaked open, and Sniper inhaled the cool air deeply several times as he stepped out, letting it wash over his skin, his hair, his clothing. It was invigorating, but not quite enough; he still felt drained. Weak and unsteady. Maybe something in his stomach would help.

Red was chased by purple on the desert horizon, and one or two stars had already dared to show their faces. Sniper tromped slowly towards the main base, his mind turning his new post-tour plans over and over, occasionally wandering back to the spare trunk. There was a light at the end of that dark tunnel within, and he hoped it stayed lit.

.

Skritch, skritch, skritch. Another day, another blueprint being outlined and edited by Engineer at the table. Sniper was beginning to think the Texan _lived_ in the messhall, he was in there so often. He was completely absorbed in his work, goggles pushed up on his shaved head, pencil moving a mile a minute. There was a half-empty mug of cold tea and a plate with nothing but crumbs on it nearby, so he'd probably been here a while already.

Sniper edged quietly along the counters, doing his best not to disturb the man. Though, maybe he needn't bother. Engineer remained focused; not even an attack from BLU could distract him at this point, he wagered.

Of course, a BLU attack probably wasn't as loud as a single Scout, such as the one that was now barging in and calling them offensive pet names at the top of his lungs, scratching the floor with his cleats and swinging the refrigerator door open with gusto. Engineer jumped in his seat, his pencil leaving a crooked squiggle in its wake, and Sniper almost dropped the magazine he had tucked under his arm.

"Scout, one of these days I'm gonna go right ahead and invent that 'Off' button for you I keep talkin' 'bout," the small man sighed, rubbing his eyes and glancing up at the clock on the wall. "If you d-" Engineer caught sight of Sniper, hand on the decaf coffee pot, and blinked. "Good grief son, how long have _you_ been in here?"

"Er, just a few minutes. Sorry Truckie, I was tryin' to grab somethin' real quick without botherin' you. Y'know, bein' respectful." Sniper glared at Scout.

"Yeah, whatever Legs," the Scout replied airily, smacking away at a cold porkchop with his mouth open. "_I_ say it's way better to let people know you're comin', not go creepin' around like some…creeper." He gnawed thoughtfully on the bone. "Seriously man, you're so quiet sometimes it hurts. Leave the creepin' to Spy."

The much taller man scowled down at the young mercenary. "Fergive me, oh wise one, I shall do better in future," he said sarcastically. He filled his beloved mug and held it up, inhaling the steam. The smell of the hot, black liquid always did him good. He carefully grabbed an apple from a nearby fruitbowl with the free fingers of his hand, and started to make for the door.

"You goin' already, Sniper?" Engineer said. "I ain't seen much of you outside work for a while, stay a spell." He gestured at one of the many empty chairs around the giant table.

Sniper thought for a moment. After the soul-wrenching afternoon he'd had, maybe a few minutes with decent company wouldn't be too bad. Even though he'd promised himself he'd turn over a new leaf and do things differently in future, he still dreaded his formerly-beloved silent surroundings. He didn't trust his mind to behave itself just yet.

"Yeah, awright," he said quietly. He turned back, pulling out a chair with a slight squeak on the tiling, and sat across from the Engineer. He set his coffee down on the table, took a bite out of the apple, and finally unfolded the long-held magazine for reading.

Scout was immediately behind him, trying to look over his shoulder. "Aw man is that a _Playboy_ I didn't know we had any in the base where'd you get it I wanna see c'mon move."

The Sniper rolled his eyes. "It was sittin' in the free room, it looked like it was, ah, in good shape, so I just figgered I'd do a little readin'."

"Heh heh, yeah, right. Everybody always just reads _Playboy_ for the articles, man." Scout finally managed to get a clear view, and his leer flipped upside down. "Wait, you really _are_ readin' it for the articles."

"So? This is very interestin' stuff, ya little sex fiend!"

"But there's _naked women_ in there! The fuck you readin' some crap 'bout some Truman Capote guy for? You know how much time we spend in this stupid fort? And you still ain't even lookin' at the breasts? You're the most boring-ass dude I've ever known, Snipes, I swear to Gawd."

A large, hairy hand shot backwards and grabbed tight hold of Scout's ear, making him yelp. Sniper twisted in his seat and glared daggers at him through his sunglasses. "Look, gremlin, enough with the stupid nicknames already. I may put up with a lot, but I draw the line at shite like that. I'm tryin' to _read_ here, so piss off, yeah?" He let Scout go, and went back to the article. "An' quit lettin' everybody know what a virgin you are," he grumbled under his breath.

"Alright, _alright_, Jesus man, whatever. I dunno what bug crawled up your ass but I'm outta here, enjoy the shitty _articles_. Later, losers." And Scout left, ranting to himself about who the real virgins were and good things being wasted on unappreciative assholes. Sniper rolled his eyes again.

"Eh, can't blame 'im _too_ bad, I think," said Engineer. "He's young and we are kinda in the middle of Diddly Squat, no women for miles and only encountered on leave. That sorta thing can really get to a kid."

Not just kids, Sniper thought sullenly. He found himself unable to process the article anymore, his eyes just kept looping on the same sentence. He sighed, and began leafing through the pages. Beer ads, saucy cartoons, more beer ads. A full-page ad for Acme Boots caught his eye, he dog-eared it for future reference. Flipped some more.

A full-color photo gallery of naked women painted up in different pictures and designs appeared. He supposed it was some new pop art thing; most of the stuff drawn on the women seemed pretty silly to him. Animals, instruments, patterns; all sorts of odd things.

He stared at the pages, flipping through them slowly and coming to a rest now and then. Nothing happened. He felt nothing inside. Sure, there was garish paint daubed all over the girls, obscuring certain views. But here were a number of pretty young women, curvy and healthy with full, bare breasts and sultry faces, and all he could think about was how that was one of the worst drawings of an owl he'd ever seen.

The tiny twisty feeling returned. Oh no, no, no, not again. I just ain't feelin' right, is all. He paged through the magazine further, a little faster, until he found an article with proper nude photos in it. He furrowed his brow at them, focusing hard on every detail. Still nothing. Wasn't a man supposed to feel _something_ at the sight of a beautiful naked woman? He knew it, he'd been alone for too long, he wasn't used to thinking this way anymore. But was it really something you had to think about? This sort of thing was supposed to come naturally, wasn't it? Animal instincts, and all that. You didn't just up and forget _instincts_.

He flipped the magazine open right down the middle and held it sideways, glaring at the centerfold. Large, full color, inviting…nothing. He'd felt more absorbed reading that author interview than he had looking at all these pictures.

He slowly turned the magazine right-side up and went looking for the Capote interview from earlier, trying to do so without his hands shaking. Perhaps pornography just didn't do anything for him, it wasn't his "thing". Hintin' at this an' that is always more interestin' than it bein' right there in your face, ain't it? he thought. It probably all came down to his damned awkwardness, too. He'd been a loner from Day One, the odd one out everywhere, rarely had great success with the fairer sex, just went on with his life. You'd think a photo would be easier than flesh & blood to deal with, but…

Sniper decided he had a _lot_ of things to work on when he retired, if he really did want his new plan to succeed.

After being lost in these gloomy thoughts for some time, only half-reading, he gradually became aware of an insistent noise. Looking up, he saw that Engineer had been watching him with his head tilted, absently tapping his pencil on the table as he did so. He wore an expression of concern mixed with a strange sort of thoughtfulness Sniper had only seen once or twice before.

Engineer blinked, and his eyes darted to the pencil. The tapping stopped, and he started fiddling with it nervously. "Sorry 'bout that. I, uh…" His eyes and the look of concern returned to Sniper. "You feelin' alright, fella? You're all pale and wrung-out lookin'."

"Oh…S'alright," Sniper said. He hadn't realized his appearance was affected from earlier, he chided himself for being so careless. "Just didn't get a good night's sleep, that's all."

"Hmm, yeah? When I'm done with this," Engineer gestured at his blueprint, "I could whip up a little white noise machine for ya. Those things're supposed to do a whole world o' good for sleep."

"Really?" That wasn't a bad idea, actually. Drown out the silence. "Yeah, I think I'd 'preciate that Truckie, thanks."

"Though if you ain't firin' on all cylinders and sleep's a problem, maybe you shouldn't be drinkin' that coffee there."

"Crikey, everybody's always on at me 'bout me coffee," Sniper muttered. "It's decaf. _Decaf_. An' I'm just havin' a little."

"Coffee's coffee, and with those…_pills_…you take…"

"I'm _fine_ Truckie." Sniper picked up the half-eaten apple and took another bite. "'M eatin' this too, y'know."

"If'n you say so, Down Under." Engineer went back to work on his blueprint, but his focus wasn't as sharp as before. After a few distracted minutes he stopped again, hands clasped on the table, and looked hard at Sniper. "An' it's just sleep that's botherin' you?" he asked.

"Just, just sleep. What is that yer workin' on there, anyhow?" Sniper tried to change the subject.

"The microwave's fixed but it just ain't the same after Soldier hit it, I'm makin' a new and improved one. So sleep, or is it somethin' else too?"

Sniper looked at the concerned man silently, turning the apple over in his hand. The hunger had left him; he still wasn't sure if he wanted to talk to anybody about his recent personal revelations.

He considered the Engineer. He wasn't entirely sure, but the more he thought about it, the more he was certain that the diminutive American was the closest thing to a friend he'd ever had. Demoman and even Scout were pretty alright, but Engineer was closest to him in terms of sensibilities, likes and temperament. You didn't chat over beer at a campfire with just anybody, after all. The man was a talented mercenary with a laugh that could rival Medic's when in the heat of battle, but moments like this, with him patiently waiting for a response to his well-meaning inquiry, were the more important and defining ones.

After so recently despairing over the lack of important people in his life, this thought was a cheering one. He'd never had more than acquaintances even as a kid; an actual friend was a good start to his new life. He couldn't bring himself to unload everything right away, but maybe, maybe he could have a go at _something_.

"I…I ain't been meself lately, no," he said. Sniper reached for his coffee mug unconsciously, enveloping it in his large hands. "Not so sure I can explain it yet. Or ever. But…thanks, mate." His grip tightened; he clutched the mug like it was a life preserver. "Thanks."

Engineer gave him a warm little smile. "My pleasure, son. You just let me know. 'Specially if it involves Spy."

Sniper half-grinned, and drank some of the coffee. "Hah, Spy. He's _a_ problem, but he ain't part of _this_ problem."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I don't know if he even is one anymore, h'actually. I think that l'il…"tiff"…we had finished it. He apologized today."

The other man looked very surprised. "What? Spy? _Spy_ apologized?"

"Well, I mean, the kinda apologizin' where ya don't really say 'sorry', but it's kinda implied, ya know?" Sniper gave him a summary of the morning.

"Hunh. That does sound more like Spy, but still." Engineer was getting that peculiar thoughtful look again, his mouth tightening as he gazed down at his blueprint. "So he and his lady broke up. Bet that's part of why he was lookin' so mournful today," he said.

"Part of? I think that's the _entire_ reason he'd be all depressed like ya said, mate. That BLU Scout's mother ain't too shabby, if I remember correctly."

"Mm. I don't know 'bout that, really." Engineer began to look nervous again, and twiddled his pencil between his fingers. "I…how you feel about hearin' a hypothesis o' mine, Sniper?"

This got Sniper to chuckle. "Aw, you know I don't understand head'r tails of most of the things you say, Truckie. Yer the one with the PhDs, not me."

"This…this one you may want to hear, I think." He looked like he was struggling very hard for the right words. "It…may be important to y'all."

Sniper shrugged, and raised his mug to his lips. "Shoot, I guess."

"I'm ninety-five percent sure that, that the Spy is…has a _thing_ for you."

Engineer managed to pull his goggles back down a nanosecond before the spray of coffee hit.


	8. Chapter 8

He wondered how long he'd been pacing. He didn't look at his watch, for fear of the answer. He was probably close to wearing the enamel off this patch of floor; every speck and scratch on the door before him was memorized.

Spy was in that spare room. He went in there sometimes, gazing out the large window at the complex that sprawled before the RED fortress, BLU's headquarters off in the distance. It seemed to be his favored spot for thinking over a quiet smoke. Sniper had overheard Medic telling the Scout he'd seen him go in recently, and he had decided now or never.

It increasingly felt like it might be never. It was all he could do to not panic and run off, leaving the matter unresolved and trying to ignore it for the remainder of his contract. But after the restless night he'd had, tossing and twitching with roiling guts, it probably wasn't feasible. He had to know.

Sniper turned over last night's hushed conversation with the Engineer in his mind again and again. He'd jumped up immediately, apologizing profusely and stammering as he scrambled to find a towel or at least some napkins to mop up the coffee. He'd helped the man clean up as best he could, then sat back down, knuckles white and face red.

"I mean, it really is just a theory, but it'd explain so much," Engineer had said, ruefully examining the brown blotches and speckles that now dotted his blueprints. "I'd been suspectin' it for a while, and what you just told me made it really click finally."

Sniper's mouth had opened and shut, unable to find the words. Eventually he'd managed a weak, "Are you sure?"

"Fairly sure."

"Maybe…maybe he just wants to be good friends, like Heavy and Medic?"

"I woulda held that as a possibility, yep. But how many friends ask such questions 'bout romancin' like that?"

"Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus Christ." Sniper had sagged lower and lower in his seat, until finally he was facedown on the table, hands and arms wrapped around his head, trying to block out the world around him. He was starting to feel sick again. "Oh Christ this is all I need."

"The love talk, the emotional arguin', the moodier swings than usual, the whole thing at the bar, the stealin'…" Engineer counted off on his fingers.

"But he stole from everybody!"

"Jus' here and there. He mostly stole from _you_. I'm thinkin' the rest was to throw people off the trail, it was all about gettin' _your_ attention. Probably tickled him no end to see you runnin' after like that."

Sniper had shifted his arms just enough to be able to peer up at the other man. "You've put a lotta thought into this."

"I'm an Engineer. Thinking is what I do," he'd said simply.

.

And now here stood Sniper, staring at the door that separated him and the Frenchman. Engineer had advised him to confront Spy. He needed to test the theory, study the results, and come up with a solution, he'd said. End it once and for all or he'd never have any peace. Friendship he could maybe handle if that was what Spy was after, _possibly_, but the other thing…that was something he needed to nip in the bud.

He paced more. He was struggling to think of a way to approach it without the end result being one or both of them leaking all over everything.

Grimacing and cursing silently, he ground a balled fist into the palm of his hand. He was a bloody goddamn professional mercenary, he shot ugly horrible men for a living. He could put a kukri right through a person if he had to. Why was _this_ so difficult?

His eyes were drawn to the door handle repeatedly. Sniper began to reach for it, drew back his hand, reached again, drew back again. No, enough was enough. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The room was empty. Sniper stared at the Spy-free space. Then he slapped his forehead and groaned. It _would_ figure that he'd spent all that time agonizing over what to do and Spy had left the room before he'd even got there. That seemed to be his life in a nutshell. He trudged over to the wide window that filled most of the opposite wall and planted his head against the glass with a tiny _thud_. He stood there, feeling stupid and not really seeing the ground below.

There was a short burst of static behind him. "Well, what is it?"

Sniper jerked upright and spun around. There was Spy, quietly shutting the door and watching him curiously, one eyebrow quirked. He mentally kicked himself for being such an idiot. He hadn't even considered that the man might have cloaked.

"Invisibility-happy spooks," he grumbled. "It's an off day, what're you doin'?"

"I may ask you the same," Spy replied, walking over to the window and standing next to Sniper. "I heard you tromping around in your great boots for a long time, and I would not be a Spy if I was not wary. Precautions."

"Hmph. _You're_ the one folks need precautions 'gainst, if anythin'."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Surely you did not come here for just the sophisticated banter?" A fresh cigarette materialized in Spy's hand.

"Oh. Right." He scrambled for an excuse. "M-Medic's doin' check-ups again soon, makin' sure everybody's shipshape an' respawn's holdin' up well." That was true enough, it was what he'd heard the Medic talk to Scout about. "He wants t'see you first."

"Any reason why?"

"No idea, mate."

"And that is all. That is what needed so much time and effort to deliver."

"…Yep." He was trying not to fidget.

Spy's eyebrow had not budged. He nodded slightly, unlit cigarette on his lips, and turned to leave.

Shit, shit, thought Sniper. Yer blowin' it, don't let him leave, don't be such a blinkin' coward. Get this over with. "Er, wait! That…that ain't all."

Spy returned to the window, taking in the view once more, not looking at Sniper. "I knew as much. Out with it then, _monsieur_." He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his lighter.

"Rem…remember yesterday mornin', when you got talkin' 'bout love with me?"

A long pause of the lighter. Then it slowly continued its course. "Yes."

Sniper's heart pounded like he was in the midst of a marathon. Like Spy, he was now looking out the window, trying to be nonchalant. He was taking in details out of the corner of his eye; he didn't think he could manage this conversation with full eye contact. "You…asked me about _my_ love life, talked about yer lady friend, alla…alla that."

"My memory is still intact, Sniper."

"I didn't…I didn't really answer yer question at the end, did I." He rammed his hands into his pants pockets, or as much of the oversized things as he could fit; he'd caught himself almost wringing them.

"No, no you did not," Spy said quietly. Smoke drifted.

"Well…maybe things _didn't_…turn out like planned. Now I think about it. Not at all." The roiling in his guts that had kept him up all night and lingered throughout the day stopped, to be replaced by the all too familiar emptiness. This was not an improvement. "But…but I think I got a good, _new_ plan now, fer what t'do. When this job's done."

"Have you, now."

"Yeah, I…I think I'm gonna try me hand at it again, find that s-someone special. Give domesticity a try. An', well, you bein' Mr. French Ladies Man, I thought…maybe ya had more opinions on it all? Advice, even?" Sniper wanted to strangle himself for the way he kept stuttering and mangling sentences. "I w-want to know what you…what you think."

Spy froze. He didn't sigh, he didn't shrug, he didn't pause, he didn't make a snide remark, he didn't hide anything under careful guard. He simply froze, like an animal in a headlight.

Sniper felt the panic building; his heart was pounding so hard and loud now he wondered if Spy could hear it. Oh, no. No, no, no. You're not doin' this, you're not bein' like this, that's not what a Spy's supposed to do, he thought desperately. Spies are supposed to be cool an' collected, all suave an' shit. This isn't supposed t'be real, please wave it off an' insult me. _Please._

For what seemed like years, neither man said anything, neither man looked at each other. Sniper began to wonder if he should back out, apologizing and saying to never mind, it was a silly topic anyhow. Then Spy spoke. He did so very slowly, saying each word carefully and purposefully.

"Tell me, Sniper. What is it you look for in one?"

"Say again?"

"When you look at potential lovers, what is it you want most? Green eyes? Long legs? Hair of a particular shade? Life style?"

"I, oh, uh. Dunno, really. Any ol' hair's nice. I like a bit of curviness, I s'pose. Green an' hazel eyes are pre—"

"And have you ever, in so many years, encountered someone like that?"

On the surface it seemed bored, matter-of-fact, maybe even impassive. But Sniper was all ears now, and he could hear the edge of strange desperation in the words. They had the tone of a man struggling to keep everything inside as tamped down and calm as possible, but one wrong moment or flux in willpower and it would come bubbling out.

"I…well there was that one green-eyed blonde, and my first was pretty damned curvy—"

"But someone with all the qualities you desire? A perfect specimen that fulfills every wish you could possibly have? A dream come true?"

"..No. That's sorta askin' a lot o' life, innit?"

Sniper saw the corners of Spy's mouth twitch upwards for a moment. "Indeed. Exactly. Precisely." They went back to silently watching the stillness outside the window.

"Is it not funny," Spy eventually continued, still not looking at Sniper, "How it all works? Life goes, and you pass through with a little list of all the things you feel you need in another. All the little details that you are convinced will make your happiness. Sometimes you find a person with one, or another with several. They work or they do not, in the end. And sometimes…sometimes you find a person with _nothing_ on that list, and yet everything about them feels right."

Right about then Sniper's heart appeared to fall into his stomach, from the feel of it. Bloody hell. He was going to need respawn before this day was through. He noticed he'd unconsciously removed his hands from his pockets some minutes ago and had been gripping the windowsill tightly.

"That..that's pretty true, yeah," he managed. There was nothing he could do to keep the strangled tone out of his voice. Oh Jesus. "Somethin' t-to think about."

"Think about," Spy repeated. "And talk about, I feel. I have some work I must attend to, but I do believe we need to converse further on this." He was speaking very quietly now.

"You…you want to talk more?"

"Tonight, I believe that would be a good time. Perhaps eight o'clock would be best, yes? The top of the hayloft in Barn Three? It is quiet and isolated and the chances of a Scout interrupting the conversation and mocking topics too mature for him to comprehend are minimal."

Sniper's mind was screaming at him. "Sounds alright," he said.

"Excellent, I shall see you then."

"Right, see you then…then," Sniper said awkwardly.

He turned on his heel, and left the room quickly. Far too quickly, Sniper knew, but he didn't care. He just wanted out. Spy remained at the window and didn't move a muscle when he exited. He hadn't expected him to.

The nausea was growing. He ran, turning corners and jumping down a flight of stairs several steps at a time, not stopping until he found an old closet in a little-used corner of the base. Then Sniper flung himself inside, shut the door tight behind him, and collapsed in the corner amidst cobwebbed supplies and boxes, cramming his knuckles into his mouth as tightly as possible to keep any sound from escaping.

.

_Once I had mountains in the palm of my hand…_

He was back in his camper. Sitting on the edge of his little bed, leaning forward and staring at the floor. He'd lost track of how many times he'd listened to this album already, but he still wasn't tired of it. It filled the silence of his little world in a way that both broke his heart and mended it.

_I must have been mad, I never knew what I had…_

It was half-past five o'clock. The dinner hour was approaching, and he was hungry, but he didn't feel like eating. He didn't think he could keep anything down with the worried nausea he had coursing through his body. And then, at eight o'clock…

_Love is all there is, it makes the world go round…_

He still wasn't sure if he was going. He knew, they _both_ knew, that it wasn't going to be some man-to-man talk about what to do with women. The theory looked as if it had been proven correct. If he went tonight, something was going to happen.

_No matter what you think about it…_

A tiny, tiny thought began to creep up on him. He pushed it away, but it kept coming back, more insistently each time. Spy had shown interest in him.

_You just won't be able to do without it…_

Somebody actually, truly, wanted _him_.

_Take a tip from one who's tried…_

But he wasn't a bloody pooftah! He was a man's man! He liked women, and had only ever gone after the fairer sex in his romantic outings! He'd been raised up good and proper, by his parents and by the little Anglican church a few streets away from their little red house. Homosexuality was a sickness, it was a sin. It wasn't natural. It'd figure that somebody as twisted as a Spy would be one.

_So if you find someone that gives you all of her love…_

But…he'd been told Thou Shalt Not Kill, too. And look how _that_ had turned out. He had particular Views on the type of killing he was doing, but Sniper knew he'd be spending a few years in Purgatory at the very least. If there even _was_ an afterlife; respawn made him thoughtful on the matter. He wondered if making love was a bigger sin than making death.

_Take it to your heart, don't let it stray…_

He'd come across a few queers during his many travels, actually; they'd appeared to be leading decent, quiet little lives. They'd found their happiness. Sniper still didn't have his.

_For one thing that's certain…_

Sniper straightened up, trying not to shake as he had before. He turned his gaze on his listless hands, sprawled in his lap. Was he _really_ going to do this? Was this the sort of person he really was? And this was _Spy_, for God's sake, what the hell sort of happiness could he find with _that_?

_You will surely be a-hurtin'…_

Somebody cared about him. Somebody had shown interest in him and his life, and had actively sought his attention. Somebody would miss him if he was gone.

Somebody, quite possibly, loved him.

_If you throw it all away._

Hours later, in the darkness of the cold night, Sniper made his way towards Barn Three of the many old abandoned buildings that sat on the RED lot. He'd taken great pains to make sure he wasn't seen, and all was quiet around him. He almost wished it wasn't, every little crackle and groan made him jump.

Barn Three. There were a couple old ladders here and there that led up to the hayloft high above; the space loomed large and black. He gripped the old wood of the nearest one firmly, and made his way up. Climbing came naturally to him, heights were nothing to a Sniper.

Of all the climbs he had made, though, this one was probably the longest.


	9. Chapter 9

It was extremely dark in the upper reaches of the barn, only a few slivers of moonlight were able to pierce the rough, mouldering shadows. Sniper could just barely make out the outlines of ancient hay piles, splintering roof beams and several pieces of long-forgotten farm equipment.

The loft was also quite devoid of Spy. But he'd been prepared for that; he was a few minutes early, after all. And for all he knew the man was already there, cloaked and watching.

Sniper finished hauling himself into the loft and peered about nervously as he brushed off his clothes. He stood stiffly in the middle of the little room for several minutes, tugging at his sleeves and adjusting his belt. Then he decided he was being silly, and sat on one of the few intact crates to wait.

The minutes rolled by, Sniper's stomach feeling queasier as each one passed. Eventually he leaned into a bar of light and checked his watch; it was 8:10. He frowned. Had Spy been putting him on? After the emotional wringer he'd just been through, he'd never forgive the man if he'd set him up to sit around in a barn as some sort of practical joke. He was giving Spy five more minutes. That was _it_.

Ten minutes later, there was the slightest of wooden creaks, and a small, sharp intake of breath in a corner of the loft. "You came." There was nothing hidden there, those two syllables were filled with both surprise and relief.

Sniper stood bolt upright, the sudden drop in blood pressure making him dizzy for a few moments as he strained his eyes in search of Spy. A puff of smoke and flicker of light momentarily flitted across his vision, and a dark, familiar-looking shape presented itself. It appeared to have its arms behind its back; a glowing orange dot hovered around the lower area of its face.

"Yer late," Sniper said hoarsely. Instead of feeling relieved that Spy had finally shown up, the queasy feeling that had haunted him spiked upwards. Despite the coolness of the evening a sheen of sweat was already forming on his skin.

"A Spy is always fashionably late." The Frenchman began to idly walk around the hayloft, moving carefully in the darkness. "And you are still here, yes? Yes," he answered himself.

"Yeah, I…I guess I am. Let's talk, then."

"Let's."

His adam's apple bobbed nervously in his throat. Sniper tried to think of something, anything, to fill time. "How much stuff on yer list did she have?"

Spy paused in his rounds. "What?"

"Yer ladyfriend, the BLU mum. She have a lotta things you liked?"

"…Yes, one or two. Maybe more. A fine woman." Spy sounded annoyed at the subject matter. Said the wrong thing again, Sniper thought to himself. He went with it anyway, to buy time.

"Ya miss her?"

"You think I would not? I am a certain type of man indeed, but not _that_ type. Of course I do. And will, for quite a while." He couldn't see it in the darkness, but he got the feeling Spy was somewhere else for the moment.

"Those photos," Spy sighed, quietly. "At first it was amusing, and one or two even managed to be quite sweet looking; I decided to keep them. A rogue such as myself, I could appreciate such handiwork, eh? But common sense prevailed. When the enemy is taking photos of you and your lover, that never foreshadows good things. Best to end it; best for her, best for me."

There was silence, with Spy lost in thought. Then he shook himself, and the dark shape turned back to Sniper. "But! On to other matters. More important ones." After a hesitant step, he began to move towards Sniper.

Sniper's mouth was completely dry now. He backed away slightly as the other man approached. "Yes, yes we do," he croaked. "We, I, that is, the sheilas in town, they—"

"And you are still pretending?" Spy said softly, still moving closer. He was now near enough for the cherry heat of the cigarette to outline a few facial features in dull, glowing warmth. "You are trying to continue with that?"

Oh God, thought Sniper. He stood still and spoke gruffly, trying to firmly hold his ground. "I don't know what yer yubbin' on about, I just want to talk, like we said!" It didn't sound convincing in the least.

Spy agreed. "Yes, talk. That is why the smell of cheap cologne has been assaulting my nose since I set foot in here," Spy said sardonically. "And, let me see…" The dark shape appeared to be looking hard at Sniper, and it reached into a pocket. Seconds later the Spy's lighter burst forth with flame, illuminating the loft.

Spy gazed at him in clear amusement, up and down with a tooth-glinting smirk. "My, yes, just to talk. No hat, no vest, though still wearing the sunglasses even in darkness. Your shirt all nice and unrolled and buttoned up, though I see you still do not understand the mystery that is the ironing board. And goodness, you even combed your hair. I am honored you took so much trouble for our little _chat_."

The masked man shifted his attention elsewhere, searching the room for something. Upon spotting a dusty old lantern on a wall hook, he went to investigate, tapping the glass delicately. There was a very thin layer of fuel still in the bottom of the contraption, so he carefully coaxed the thing into life. Satisfied with his handiwork, Spy shut the glass door with a _click_ and put away his lighter, turning back to Sniper with his usual carefully unreadable face.

Sniper hadn't moved the whole time; instead of it being from holding his ground, his legs just felt like leaden weights. "It don't mean a thing," he said. "No reason to lug all that gear up here for some l'il talk. An' I wanted, I wanted to…to show I knew how to look for a lady."

"But of course," Spy said, moving closer once more. "And that is why the strong, brave outdoorsman is currently pale and damp as a lily, with ears as red as produce. Not the best combination, visually," Spy added.

The bushman opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He had run out of things to say.

"We are not here to talk, you know that," Spy whispered. He stopped, now a mere foot away from the frozen man. This close and with the aid of the lamp, Sniper could see the nervousness that permeated the Spy's own frame, only barely contained by the calm front. And now he was leaning towards him, very slowly…

"S'cuse me," Sniper said, raising a shaking finger. He whipped around and stumbled away from the surprised Frenchman, heading to the nearest corner as fast as he could.

His vomiting eventually became dry heaves, and he stood shivering, bent with hands on knees and gasping for breath as he waited for the room to stop spinning. He risked a glance to his side. Spy stood with arms crossed, his mouth a thin, tight line, looking severely disgruntled. Drumming a finger on his suit sleeve, Spy eventually sighed and produced a handkerchief, which he held out.

Sniper took it with an unsteady hand, standing up straight with the help of the other pressed firm against the wall. First he wiped his sweaty forehead with the cloth, then his mouth and soiled chin.

"Sorry," he said very quietly. "Sorry."

"You are most certainly not getting a kiss tonight after _that_," Spy grumbled.

The handkerchief paused in the middle of being balled shut. It was a good thing he was all emptied out now, Sniper thought. "So ya really _were_ gonna do it," he managed.

"Well, I do not believe I was leaning in for my health, especially not with that horrid _musk_ you have splashed yourself with."

Sniper's eyes dropped to the floor, his face alternatingly more flushed and pale than before. Hypothesis confirmed, as Engineer would probably say. But even though he had his answer, he still wasn't entirely sure what he'd do with it.

His attention returned to the soiled handkerchief. He made to return it to Spy, but a gloved hand instantly shot up, palm out. "_Non_," said Spy, unable to keep mild disgust off his face. "Wash and keep it, I have plenty and I am most certain you have none."

"Oh. Th-thanks." Sniper shoved it roughly into a pants pocket. Picking up some of the ancient hay, he covered up the unsightly mess in the corner. He took a long time to dust off his hands, looking anywhere but at Spy.

"And so?"

Spy stood there expectantly. The nausea had been purged from his body, but it was quickly being replaced by outright panic. Sniper was at a complete loss for what to do next. He stood before the other man, swallowing hard. He made several false starts, trying to move this way or that in some sort of attempt at reciprocation. They all failed, his hands rising and falling with each one. In the end he merely threw said hands up in frustration, sitting down on the same crate he had earlier, his head bowed.

He could sense that Spy was standing in front of him, could feel the eyes boring into him. After what felt like a period of thought, there was the shuffling of cloth and the click of a metallic case. "Would this be of some help?" Spy asked.

There was a flash and a puff of smoke on the edge of Sniper's vision, and he looked up. Before him stood a beautiful woman, thin and dark, in a red dress. Hands on her hips, she looked at him questioningly. Sniper's eyes bugged out of their sockets.

"Well?" the apparition said in a feminine voice.

"_Holy Mother o' God!_"

"That is a no, I suppose."

"_Put it away! Put it away!_"

Sniper had nearly fallen off the damn crate in his shock. His boots scrabbled at the floor for purchase as he leaned back, pressing himself flat against the wall of the hayloft. His mouth was opening and shutting like a fish gasping for air.

The woman disappeared in a puff of smoke, to be replaced by Spy once more, shrugging and tucking his disguise kit away. "Well, I had a 'go at it', as you might say."

"What the _fuck_ was that? _Why do you even have somethin' like that?_" Sniper was still flat against the wall.

Spy glared at him. "Do not insinuate! All Spies have at least one disguise such as that, for times of great emergency. It is most unexpected and helps with blending into a crowd; I believe female Spies have a male equivalent."

"_I_ can't believe ya just tried to use that thing on me!"

"I was trying to help, bushman! I am getting quite mixed signals here!" Spy snapped, his visible skin reddening. "What do you want from me?"

"I don't know!" Sniper snapped back, fists clenching. Then they opened, every bit of him suddenly sagging and feeling tired. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. "I don't know what I want," he said more quietly.

Spy sighed. After a few moments he silently sat down next to Sniper; not touching him, just sitting there. When the Australian remained still he sighed again, and the cigarette case reappeared. Sniper felt a slight nudge on his arm, and turned to see the fancy cigarettes being offered to him once more. "To get out the taste." He took one without a word, and did not object as Spy lit it with his own.

They sat there for some time, smoking and taking care where the ashes fell in the dry, dusty hayloft. Sniper's was nearly a dog end before he spoke again, in a low, tired voice. "Y'know, I always thought it was 'cos you were French."

"…Pardon?"

"Y'know. All the…" Sniper made vague gestures at Spy. "All the _you_. The ladyfriend threw me off, too. Thought it was all just fancy French ways, touchy-feely Eur'pean stuff. Never figgered ya fer…" He paused, trying to get the word out. "…a pooftah."

Spy arched an eyebrow dramatically. "An interesting word for it," he snorted. "But no, to be honest, I have never considered myself…that."

"Eh?" Sniper's brow furrowed. "Then what the hell d'ya call all _this_, the—"

A large puff of smoke was released in exasperation. "I do not call it anything," Spy said. "I…look. Have I been with many women? Yes. And have I been with men as well? …Yes. But…I do not consider myself a _folle_. I do not feel I chase one more than the other. I merely go with that which catches my interest. Do you understand?" He gave Sniper a serious, searching look.

"I s'pose," Sniper said. "Still don't know how ya went from a lady like that t'_me_." He licked his thumb and forefinger, pinching out the end of the used-up cigarette before flicking it onto a bare patch of floor and grinding it into a smear with his heavy bootheel. "Me. _Me_."

Spy smiled in amusement. "I do believe you sell yourself short, _Nez Rouge_. I have considerable taste, after all. Never do I go into something haphazardly; I am surprised the 'sheilas' do not trail in your wake."

"Don't make fun," Sniper growled.

"Ah, but it brings me such _enjoyment_," the Spy said. "You are ever so easy to tease and rile." The man's grey-blue eyes began to trail all over Sniper's frame. "And you are tall, and broad-shouldered. A great, gruff bushman all bedraggled, yet with sideburns and hair so _precise_, and such a fixation on politeness and standards. He shoots and slashes the enemy with skill, yet is so quiet and retiring and fumbling off the field." At this point Spy's smile became much wider and wickeder. "And the great big man's man burns so red at the slightest thing."

Sliding closer, Spy's hand snaked out to stroke Sniper's neck and shoulder. He flinched, and Spy moved back, his smile gone. "And he is as chaste as a schoolgirl, apparently."

"Look, I _said_ this was hard fer me!" Sniper yelled, standing up suddenly. He circled the room restlessly, arms crossed. "I ain't never done anythin' like this before! I ain't even sure if this is what I _want_!"

"You are here, yes?"

"I know! An' I don't know! Christ, Spy, it had t'be _you_ of all people. You an' me, honestly? Day before yesterday we was screamin' our bloody heads off at each other!" The Spy remained sitting on the crate, eyes following Sniper from another carefully blank face. That constantly-raised guard was getting to him.

"An' I'm still mad at you, y'know," he muttered. "Stealin', cuttin', foolin', ya ain't done nothin' but piss me off fer the most part. An' I got a feelin' it wouldn't be the last time I got grief from you, spook."

"You do not know until you try it, _monsieur_."

"Hrmf."

"They say that rousing such _passionate_ anger in one another is a sign that passion of another kind is not far behind."

"Ah, rubbish."

Spy leaned forward, steepling his hands. "A question, bushman. What would you have done if I had come to you straight away, whispering sweet nothings in your quite prominent ear?"

Sniper paused, thinking about it. One of his hands fidgeted. "…Probably woulda popped ya one right in the nose," he admitted.

"Quite. As usual, my judgement is correct." Spy stubbed out his own cigarette on the crate, releasing one last cloud of wispy smoke. "Possibly not the best methods of testing the waters, yes, but it was all very informative, and with no real harm in mind." He smoothed back a wayward wrinkle in his mask. "For the most part, but that one was your own fault."

A gloved hand waved Sniper off when he opened his mouth angrily. "Oh please. It _was_, bushman. And, well. You would not begrudge me practice, would you? I do so like to stay _sharp_; in my mind your vest or your precious little mug was like a piece of intel to capture. It was for the good of the Team, really."

The Sniper turned away, rubbing the back of his head in frustration. Don't listen to the excuses, he told himself. It could be the start of somethin' bad. He's a Spy, and Spies will trick ya into terrible things. This probably wasn't worth it.

The lantern had been dimming gradually, and now began to flicker as the last of the fuel was used up. Spy glanced at it, then motioned to Sniper as he leaned back against the wall. "Have a seat, will you? I promise I will not bite. Yet, at any rate." Another wicked grin.

Sniper hesitated. This would be a good time to get the hell out of there and move on with his life, now that he knew the truth. But then it would just be him and the emptiness again, for who knew how long. Just him and the pictures of beautiful bodies that meant nothing to him no matter how hard he tried.

Piss, he thought, slowly shuffling towards the crate. May as well see how it goes. It may go _bad_, but it's like that one fella said; better to try it and lose than never do nothin' at all.

He resumed his seat on the box, the wood creaking under the combined weight of the Frenchman and the tall Australian. Spy regarded him politely with hands still clasped over a crossed leg. "Are you an early riser, _Nez Rouge_?" he asked.

"Er, yeah. Nat'ral one, don't need a clock most of the time."

"Neither do I. That could come in handy, some day," Spy said. It could've just been the dying light, but Sniper swore he'd seen a small flicker of warmth in the man's face.

Settling back, Spy leaned sideways until their shoulders were just touching. Sniper stiffened, but it quickly became apparent that nothing else was about to happen and he relaxed.

"It is late, or at least late enough to end the waking day," Spy said as the last vestiges of the lantern light began to die away. We can chat some, or just try for sleep as is."

"You, sleepin' in a tatty, cold room on a box like this?"

"I am a Spy. We sleep where we must, there has been worse."

And the two men sat there in the darkness of the hayloft, shoulder to shoulder, waiting on sleep. Sniper couldn't believe he was doing this, but curiousity and that small pilot light of hope egged him on.

"We shall see," Spy said softly, "If we can manage even just this."

Let's have a go at it, Sniper thought.

.

The next morning came swift and crisp; Sniper awoke with a start, faint plumes of chilled breath fogging his aviators. Somewhere in the distance was the clucking and mild crowing of the base's rooster and chickens. One of these days he'd have to join the others and try to catch a few of the buggers. They seemed more adept at hiding amongst the ramshackle buildings and equipment than BLUs.

"Urgh," he groaned, shifting and stretching fitfully. I'm gettin' too old for this, he thought muzzily. His body didn't take as readily to awkward sleeping locations as much as it used to, and the lingering chill of the night had seeped into his bones. Sniper made to rub his aching leg, and the grumble of sleep to his right finally snapped his attention to the most pressing matter. The quite literally pressing one.

So that was why his right side had felt heavier and warmer than the other. Bloody hell, he'd nearly forgotten. Spy was still there on the crate next to him; the two men had moved closer together in the night, and probably not just for the extra warmth.

Sniper sat still as a statue, not even daring to breathe. He wondered if his suddenly thumping heart was loud enough for the other to hear. Waking up to a potential lover next to him, _touching_ him, and a man at that…he tried to remain calm.

It was funny, though. The Spy almost looked sort of innocent deep in sleep, the mask aside. He knew better, but it was fascinating to see. No eyes boring into you, no wicked grins or bared teeth. Just a normal, sleeping man, the corners of his thin mouth turned up just slightly. Sniper's own mouth threatened to twitch into a little smile at the sight of it.

An idea struck him. Lifting his hand hesitantly, he slowly reached towards Spy's face, nervously licking dry lips. He brushed several fingers across an exposed section of the man's surprisingly soft cheek. Spy's eyes snapped open with a startled gasp, and in a blurred second he slammed the edge of his palm into Sniper's forehead.

"_Whuf_," said Sniper, going cross-eyed. He fell sideways off the crate in a heap, clutching at his head.

"Oh." Spy at least had the decency to look embarrassed for a fraction of a second as he adjusted his suit, alert eyes scanning the slightly less-dark hayloft. "My apologies, bushman."

"Tuppin' _hell_, Spy!" Sniper sat cross-legged on the floor, still massaging his forehead with both hands. "Ya do that with _all_ yer pair'a-mores?"

A smile flickered across the Spy's face. He stood up, cracking his knuckles with a stretch of his interlocked arms. "My _paramours_ have generally been of a more, ah, _soft_ persuasion. Usually when a great hairy, calloused paw is in my vicinity, something bad is about to happen."

Sniper frowned, bringing one of his hands down for inspection. "They ain't _that_ hairy."

"And what _were_ you doing? Not trying to go for the mask again, were you?" Spy's eyes narrowed.

"I ain't _that_ dumb, spook," Sniper grumbled. He looked away, avoiding eye contact. "I just thought strokin' faces was somethin' yer s'pposed to do in the mornin'."

Spy's face softened ever so slightly, to be quickly covered by great amusement. Walking over to the sitting man and bending down, Spy delicately took hold of the Australian's other wrist and looked at the watch. Sniper felt the back of his neck and his ears go red at the touch. He _really_ needed to work on not actin' like such a silly nance at every little thing the Spy did.

Spy released his hand and stood up straight. "Quarter to six, plenty of time to go and get ready for the work of the day without raising suspicion." Sniper heaved himself up, brushing dust and hay off his now very bedraggled clothing. "And some of us really need that, I do wager."

"Yeah. Work," Sniper said. He was stiff and cold and feeling very lost. Still no real idea what he was doing. Still not even sure if this was a good idea to begin with. No romance he'd ever taken part in, however briefly, had gone like _this_. Work would be a welcome distraction.

"Thanks to my cloak," Spy continued, "I can come and go most easily, no matter the location. Such as here. You, not so much, but you are a bushman and a Sniper, so I believe your own stealthiness is not too much an issue."

"So we're goin', then."

"For now, yes. We must not rouse suspicion-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Sniper looked at the smaller man standing confidently before him, apparently none the worse for wear after the night in the barn. He bit his lip in anxious thought. "So…"

Spy leaned forward and patted him gently on the cheek with a gloved hand. "So we shall talk later, dearest convict, when the time is right. Perhaps tonight, if there is the chance. After all, talking is what you came up here for, eh?" A little smirk.

"I s'pose so," Sniper grunted. Talking, he could handle. Much better than that…other stuff, at any rate. For now. "See ya at work, then," he finished awkwardly.

"_Bonne journée_, bushman."

The Spy disappeared with a crackle, and waiting several minutes to give him a head start, even though he probably didn't need it with the cloak, Sniper climbed down the ladder and exited the barn. He cautiously returned to his camper van, and left ten minutes later for the showers as if there was just another day of fighting ahead. If only.


	10. Chapter 10

There was a crackling peal of what sounded like low thunder, which echoed for a fair distance in all directions, and the body of the BLU Sniper crumpled down out of view.

That had been an unreasonably lucky kill, in RED Sniper's opinion. He'd been scoping out his half of the battlefield on a whim, and had noticed that the enemy's sharpshooter had managed to circle around behind them a fair distance. The BLU had been aiming at him when Sniper had locked onto him in turn; he'd beaten the other man to the shot by a matter of seconds.

He retreated quickly, ears ringing. That was one of the biggest drawbacks of using such a high-powered rifle; the booming noise it made could be heard for miles and unless the location was a very good one, it was dangerous to stick around.

Turning several corners, Sniper reunited with Engineer, who had built up his metallic nest in a small alcove. Pyro had decided to strike out further that day. The two men exchanged nods, Engineer giving him a quick tap on the arm to make sure he wasn't just somebody's disguise. "The other Sniper's down, mate," Sniper said, scooping a handful of bullets out of one of the dispenser's many hatches. "That gives ya a few minutes to move forward under my cover if ya want."

"Much obliged," the Texan replied. In the blink of an eye his current constructions were packed up, and soon Engineer and Sniper were running from one hidden corner to another, peering around, above and behind themselves cautiously. Sniper had several pieces of spare metal tucked under one arm, just in case the other man needed it. He wasn't sure how Engineer managed to set up the machinery so quickly, but it was never a bad thing for RED when he did.

Very shortly, Engineer's new base was parked on the second floor of yet another abandoned building. The teleporter sputtered into life, and seconds later the Heavy was booming thanks as he slowly hurtled off into the distance. Sniper set himself up in one of the windows, deciding to keep an eye on their surroundings for a little while before moving forward with the rest of the Team.

After a period of silence, the Engineer spoke up. "Oh, hey fella. Nearly finished that white noise machine for you. Just remembered, figured I'd letcha know."

"The wh—oh! Yeh, I remember. Thanks, Truckie, I really do 'preciate it."

Engineer fiddled with a few screws and wires on the sentry. "You want me to bring it over, or d'you wanna come get it y'self?"

Sniper was about to tell him he could just come on over anytime, but one of the back parts of his brain kicked in and reminded him that this was probably inadvisable these days. Who knew when Spy would be popping by? That could lead to unpleasant coincidences. "Ohhh…don't wanna be a bother, mate. I'll just come get it myself when it's done, save ya a trip."

"Sure thing, son."

"Hm, gossiping like secretaries at the water cooler."

Despite himself, Sniper jumped at the sound of that voice, the rifle clunking against the broken windowpane. Spy stood perched on the teleporter exit, the last few sparks of mysterious red energy drifting down around him. He looked upon the two surprised men impassively, and moved to the dispenser. "Honestly," he said, leaning against the machine as he lit the cigarette upon his lips.

"Do not move forward just yet, gentlemen," he said, straightening and releasing the first of many clouds of smoke to come. "The BLU Engineer has built in a tricky location, and their Demoman has been wrecking havoc on all who try to do something about it." The glow of the dispenser exaggerated the lines on the man's face, revealing the tired look of the recently respawned. It disappeared slowly as the machine did its work and sped up the process of rejuvenation.

"Farewell for now." Spy quickly departed down the splintering steps just outside the room, and darted through the shadows that were deepening as the afternoon wore on. Sniper raised scope to eye as if on autopilot, and watched the pinstriped Frenchman halt to plan his next move before fading into red-tinged nothingness.

He remained zoomed-in on the spot for several minutes, even though there was probably nobody there anymore. "So did y'all have your…talk?" came Engineer's voice from the side, softly.

Sniper blinked, and quickly lowered the scope. 'Oh, y-yeah, yeah, we did. We decided to have a go at bein' friends," he said hastily. Probably too hastily.

Most of the top half of Engineer's face was hidden by his helmet and goggles when on-duty, but Sniper could practically _see_ the eyebrows knitting in confusion. "What, you are? He is? Y'mean he ain't really…y'know…"

"We've settled our differences, an' we're gonna try an' be mates now," Sniper said more firmly. He felt bad, not telling Engineer the truth, but he didn't think he was even ready to tell _himself_ yet.

"Well…awright, long's you two ain't fightin' no more." Engineer still sounded unsure and surprised. "That'd be nice if'n Spy were easier to get along with. More Team unity an' all that. Good luck, fella."

"Thanks, Truckie."

Engineer turned back to the teleporter as Soldier materialized on its whirring platform, and Sniper returned to his scoping. The scraps of conversation that surrounded him whenever another teammate arrived in the room became mere faint distractions on the edge of hearing as he grew absorbed in his own thoughts.

_Had_ they worked out their differences? The two of them had gone from snarling insults in each other's faces to being maybe-almost-possibly-kind of romantically involved so fast it made his head spin. Maybe Spy had been right, and anger and passion _did_ go hand-in-hand; it pulled certain people together like magnets. Opposites attract and all that rubbish.

He sighed inwardly; Sniper had hoped work would distract him from his personal issues, but the long periods of quiet downtime had other plans.

To his mild horror, he found himself contemplating Spy very closely, in ways he had never done with another man before. He wasn't doing this only because he was lonely and had jumped on the first person in ages to find him appealing, was he? Was the dirty magazine a fluke? There had to be _something_ about Spy that kept him dedicated to this little experiment, and not just a fear of dying alone and unloved.

Spy had certainly found things in _him_ that were attractive, if the Frenchman had been telling the truth. Various little aspects of his personality and looks that he hadn't even realized could be considered attractive. Sniper felt his ears and the back of his neck burn at the memory, and hoped to God nobody noticed.

A mental image of Spy formed in his mind. He went over it, piece by piece, trying desperately to analyze and rationalize. He certainly didn't find anybody _else_ on RED attractive; he tried to work out what the Frenchman had that they didn't.

He started with the eyes; eyes were always a favorite of his. Snipers noticed details, and there were few details quite as fine as a person's eyes. Grey-blue, like water on a cloudy day or the metal of a gun; they didn't look at you, they looked _into_ you. They were eyes that meant business, for better or worse. They were often very serious and calculating, even vicious, but the moments where the guard went down for the tiniest of windows hinted at something else. He decided that they were, in fact, very _nice_ eyes.

The man had an interesting voice. It could be ridiculous, outrageous and full of exaggerated drama or mimicry, and Sniper generally didn't care for French in either word or accent, but Spy had a way of grabbing your attention with it. He had very delicate, articulate hands, and there was something about that slight build that still managed decent amounts of damage when necessary. Sniper was secretly glad the other man was shorter and slimmer than him; If he'd been near his size or even greater he'd probably be having a far worse time trying to work things out now. If he even would be at all; if he was honest with himself, he'd probably have felt threatened and backed out.

Sniper struggled to think of other positives. Spy was smart, he could be genuinely witty at times. Spy dressed sharply and neatly...it was rather hard to do, now that he actually thought about it. The man hid every inch of flesh he could and was unbelievably secretive about every last aspect of himself, and was antagonistic towards even his own coworkers. He'd obviously managed to charm various people in life, though, so maybe he'd open up to Sniper. He hoped so. He wasn't sure he could love anonymously.

Throughout these deep thoughts Engineer's voice had remained vaguely audible, along with those of several other REDs coming and going. Towards the end Engineer's voice had become more frequent and urgent, and Sniper gradually became aware of other noises in the background. The bullet that grazed his shoulder finally snapped him out of his distracted daze.

He dropped down backwards with a grunt, rifle pulled tight across his body. "_Piss!_" Sniper looked around wildly and saw the Engineer crouched down low, hammering away at his battered sentry as it whirred up and down, following the movements of the enemy outside.

"You alright? How the hell didn't you see 'em out there?"

"Gah, sorry, mate," Sniper said as he clutched at the wound. The bullet had only winged him, but a steady stream of blood was trickling from his stinging shoulder. He shuffled sideways towards the dispenser, taking care not to raise himself higher just yet. Sniper leaned against the warm machinery, keeping his breathing steady as the glowing red vapor surrounded his body and slowly closed the wound. "My mind drifted fer some reason, dunno why," he muttered lamely.

The sentry jerked upwards, letting loose a stream of rockets at a BLU that had stepped a little too close. Engineer gave it one more good whack with his wrench, and cocked his head appraisingly at Sniper. "I think I better finish up that l'il noise machine for you lickety split."

.

Sniper sat on the edge of his battered old chair, watching the stars come out during one last smoke before bed. It was very chilly already; he knew it was only a matter of weeks until he'd be forced to use his official quarters inside the base. It may have been the desert but it wasn't the _Australian_ desert, and it'd be too cold for him to stay in the camper all winter.

He'd seen Spy briefly during dinner, the Frenchman had nodded in acknowledgement at his presence and moved on. They hadn't spoken, and Sniper had finished his meal and left. He'd told Engineer that they were going to be "friends", but he wondered just how much Spy would play the part in public. Maybe he'd ignore him completely. That was probably better than the _other_ possibility.

He'd been waiting quite a while here already, though. Was Spy even going to come by tonight? Sniper didn't like to think how much of his spare time might be taken up just waiting around anxiously for the other man to show up. He had better things to do with his time.

But not many, he thought unhappily.

Out of nowhere, the tips of a gloved hand stroked the back of his neck gently. Sniper nearly swallowed his cigarette. As he coughed hard a low voice behind him said, "My apologies, _mon grand_."

"Yer what? Where ya even _been_, Spy? What took so long?" Sniper croaked, stamping out his cigarette nervously. He swiveled to look behind; there was no one there. "Why ya still hidin'?"

"I am afraid I have been busy, the Medic wished to talk. And I shall have to talk some more before the evening is through. I cannot stay more than a minute."

"Oh. Well…what next, then?"

"We shall have to see. A Spy is a very busy man, even after hours. With any luck, we shall find the time. You think I am abandoning you, no?"

"No! No, nothin' like that, mate. I know yer…yer busy…" Sniper's voice dwindled into distracted silence. Spy's invisible hand had moved upwards, and was playing with the tousled hair at the nape of his neck, his fingers curling the strands around them and gently pulling free. There was no way to stop the blush, and Sniper was very glad the darkness masked it.

"Excellent. Till next time, and do try not to fret so on-the-clock. That was very close, today." The hand moved to the stained rip on his shirt.

"Humph." Sniper had hoped nobody but Engineer had witnessed that.

"Humph yourself. Good night, bushman."

"…G'night."

.

Spy remained busy the next day, and the one after that. Sniper had never realized before just how little downtime the man seemed to have; he'd figured he was hard to pin down just for the hell of it, to build up his mystique. Now that he was on the inside, so to speak, he could see that really wasn't the case.

The entire week went by both at a snail's pace and in a blur, something that Sniper thought scientifically impossible, and it was the weekend again before anything of real note happened. He supposed this was how it went with normal folks, too: work the week through with a few words here and there and then catch up with your sweetheart at the end of it. He felt embarrassed for even _thinking_ the word 'sweetheart'.

It was a bright, sunny Saturday morning, so he spent it outside despite the coolness of the air, sleeves unrolled to their full length. Even completely unrolled his wrists poked out of them a little too far. He probably would've benefited from the additional protection of his slouch hat and vest, but he found himself wearing them less and less during off-hours lately. He couldn't easily explain why.

The early winter weather was making him feel productive, giving the much-needed distraction he'd sought. He had a small pile of ripped clothing next to him, mostly shirts, all of them much-battered from the violence of battle. Protection from the elements aside, professionals also needed to _look_ professional, so it was time to do some mending. And damn it, he still needed to go into town for some yarn.

The sound of the cloaking device in action nearby reached his ears and Sniper paused, needle in the air, but just for a moment. He went back to work without lifting his head, focusing on the task at hand. It was a struggle to keep his nerves in check; the week had gone by so quietly that everything he'd built up at the beginning felt like it had been eroded away with him back at Square One.

After several minutes of silence he glanced up. Spy was leaning against the stack of crates that acted as a dividing wall, smoking as usual and watching him with interest.

Sniper tried to continue mending the shirt in his lap, but it was no use. Not with the other man staring. He tapped the needle on his knee, eyeing him. "Ya gonna say hullo or what?"

"Oh, do not stop on my account, please do continue. It is fascinating to watch. He not only knits, he sews! Such a model of domesticity! Ask me how my day has been as you do so," Spy said, smirking. He sauntered towards him, hands in pants pockets.

"Don't make fun," Sniper growled at him. "Not everybody's got some fancy ponce tailor they can go to."

"Yes, yes. It is a useful skill, do not fret. And with your sunglasses still on, too, impressive. No thimble? But no, I see you do not need one." The smirk widened. "I wager you could light a match on those hands."

Sniper stopped trying to work completely, and leaned forward on his elbows. He looked at Spy expectantly, one thick eyebrow arched. "And?"

"And what, dearest convict?"

"You goin' somewhere with all this?"

"Tch, he is thin-skinned elsewhere. You object to my finding you interesting?"

"Oh." There was that flustered feeling again, rising up slowly. "That's…that's okay, I guess."

"I should hope so, or this…_relationship_…would become more difficult than it already is." He moved closer to Sniper and stood beside him, leaning in slightly.

"_Not outside!_" Sniper hissed in alarm, leaning away.

"Yes, one of the crows might see, and who knows who they will tell in turn," Spy remarked, frowning. "Difficult indeed."

"How many times I gotta say this ain't as easy fer me as it is fer you? I'm still thinkin' everythin' over! An' what if one o' the others walked by?"

"Then we should get our ears and eyes checked, for not noticing such glaringly obvious intruders. And I do believe I have known Heavies that think faster than you!" Spy snapped.

The silence returned, uncomfortable this time. Sniper glared at the tear in his spare shirt, Spy at their surroundings. But then the man paused and made a noise of curiousity, and Sniper looked up just in time to see him making a beeline straight to the open door of the camper van.

The shirt threw up a small cloud of dust as it slid off Sniper's alarmed lap onto the ground. "'Ey 'ey 'ey, that's private! Hold up!" But it was too late, Spy was already inside.

Sniper lurched towards the van in panicked dread, gripping both sides of the door and gritting his teeth in preparation for aggravation. Spy stood just inside, wordlessly taking it all in. "You are blocking the light," he said finally, not turning around.

"It's my light t'block! Gerrout!"

"Oh? And if I am not allowed in here, and you are afraid of what might happen outside, where else do you propose? You wish to prick yourself with moldy hay every time? You wish to try and enter my own room without garnering attention?"

"I…aw, hell." Sniper buried his face in one hand, rubbing his temples. "This is my private space, awright? I don't let nobody in here, like, ever." It was one nerve-wracking new experience after another lately.

"It is certainly a…_small_ private space."

The Sniper climbed inside the camper and stood just behind Spy, his tall frame heavily stooped to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling. "Guess it is at that," he mumbled.

It _was_ a small space. A very, very small space. The camper was essentially a box stapled on top of a pickup; there was practically no floor room. Half of it was taken up by the shabby single bed that sat sideways against the back wall. There was a large cubby space just above it; various books, small boxes and miscellaneous items were stacked up there, held in place by a rope cord hammered into the wall on either side. A sad, solitary little lightbulb inside a wire rig hung from the ceiling over the bed, and there were two large trunks and a box underneath the bedframe. A smaller trunk sat off to one side. There was nothing else in the van.

Self-consciousness burned on Sniper's face. He'd felt the camper suited him just fine, he spent all his time outdoors, anyway. This was just a place for sleeping in. For personal time. For keeping his belongings in and for protection from inclement weather, nothing more. But now it occurred to him how sad and pathetic it must look to outsiders, and the naked look of surprise and even mild concern in Spy's expression made him uneasy.

Spy kept looking from the little bed to Sniper. "How on earth do you even _fit_ on that, _Nez Rouge_?"

The blush deepened. "I curl up."

The Frenchman made a disapproving sound. "That is no good. The slightest movement of any kind and you would squash me like an insect, most likely."

Alarm bells clanged inside his head. "I'd _what_?" said Sniper, startled.

"I must admit, it is much cleaner in here than I had expected," said Spy. He moved forward and put one hand on the bed as he inspected the neatly organized storage space. "Shabby, but clean. How about that, you have some classics on your bookshelf."

Sniper glowered. "Cleaner than y-? Whatchoo think I am, some sorta pig? I'm a self-respectin' professional an' a responsible adult!"

"Mm, of course." Spy stretched and ran his fingers across the spines of the books above. "Such an interesting library, _Nez Rouge_. So many classic romances by female authors. Are you a Janeite, bushman?" He turned to leer at Sniper. "Or does Mr. Rochester make you quiver with each and every _'mon Janet'_?"

"Oh, lay off it already!" Sniper snarled, shoving Spy's hand away from the books. Spy's eyes flashed dangerously for a moment, but he said nothing. "They're just books me mum gave me way back in the day. She wanted me t'be well-read an' lit'rate." Sniper frowned at the battered hardcovers. "Just sentimental old knick-knacks."

"Hmm," said Spy. Sniper suddenly worried that maybe he'd been too harsh; teasing seemed to be one of Spy's natural states of being and his response had probably offended him. Serves him right, Sniper thought defiantly. He ain't the boss'a everythin'.

But Spy was quick to find new diversions; the little trunk at his feet became the next object of his attention and he crouched before it. "And what of this?"

"No, do_hngh_," said Sniper, banging his head on the ceiling as his body tried to straighten in his renewed panic. "Don't open it!" He rubbed his head. "That's _personal_ an' not fer you!"

"Wrong thing to say," Spy replied, opening it immediately.

There wasn't much in the trunk. Spy pulled out a handful of black & white photographs, inspecting each one closely from various angles. "Your family, yes?"

"Yeah, my family. Mostly me folks, a few others're in there." Sniper sat down on the floor in resignation. "That lady with the bobcut's one of me cousins, she's real nice. My folks're always sendin' along words from her."

"You…look very much like your mother," Spy said in astonishment. He stared with disbelief at the photo in his hand.

"Got me dad's nose an' ears, though." Sniper gave Spy a suspicious look. "Wait, you ain't implyin' nothin', are ya?"

"Of course not, yours is a fine family," the other man hastily replied. He set the photos down carefully, and adjusted his cigarette. "Though you certainly do contact them often and care mightily about what they think, for a grown man. I know they do not approve, I have heard snippets of some quite magnificent phonecalls on occasion. Why?"

Sniper looked at him, uncomprehending. "..Why wouldn't I? They're me _family_. Family's important! Don't you talk t'yers?"

Spy smiled; there was no humor in it. "There is no one to talk to. They are long gone, without witness to my current career."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Eh, such is life. I do not look back." Spy shrugged carelessly.

Feeling subdued, Sniper scratched his nose, and felt the deep groove that now occupied the left side. "Crikey, the scar," he muttered. "Still dunno how to explain it to me folks. Or how to explain _you_, if it ever comes to that."

Spy's expression softened a fraction, but was instantly replaced by a wicked little smirk as the gloved hand wandered into the trunk again. It rooted amongst several little objects and pulled out a bright, cream-colored panama hat, squashed slightly by the box.

"An ugly thing," he remarked as he inspected it, waving it carelessly, "Suitable only for ridiculous old men." He tossed it aside with a flick.

"Hey, I been savin' that! Shut yer mouth, I like it!"

"Then your taste is suspect, bushman. I…_mon_ _dieu_, what is _this_."

Both men had expressions of horror on their faces, but for different reasons. Spy held an eye-searingly colorful shirt out in front of him, using as few fingers as possible. It was tropical in theme, plastered in various flowers and plants, and looked like it would clash terribly with absolutely everything in existence. Spy regarded it with wide eyes, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Slowly, he turned his head to Sniper, shock still in place. "_What_," he said with a tinge of disgust to his voice, "_Is this_."

"It's mine is what it is!" Sniper snapped, turning red uncontrollably. He snatched the shirt away from Spy, clutching it tight to his chest. He reached out and scooped up the Panama as well, and held the articles like they were precious treasures.

"Please do enlighten, I do not remember you mentioning anything like _this_ at the bar."

"Don't mention the bar again if ya know what's good for ya," Sniper growled, still red. He looked away. "An' you'd just laugh."

"Probably. Tell me anyway."

"Hrngh. Awright." He rubbed and tugged at the cloth between his fingers nervously. "Me first time goin' to America, yeh? Never left home b'fore, never been outta Australia b'fore. Plane stopped in Hawaii fer a few hours on the way t'California. Layover, y'know?"

Sniper became lost in thought, staring at the flowery patterns on the shirt. "Real pretty, that, Hawaii. Took a look around while waitin' for me next flight. Didn't see much pro'bly, but I saw _enough_. Damn gorgeous beaches like back home, but without the gobs'a vicious deadly critters an' Ockers everywhere."

"I have not been to Hawaii, but I have been to other tropical locales. They are full of beautiful people, beautiful locations, and feasts for every human sense you could care to name," said Spy.

"Yeh, that's the impression I got. Bought this stuff while there, thinkin' how I'd like to go back some day. An', well…" Sniper shifted uncomfortably, wondering if this was sharing too much too soon, or if it would be the start of something problematic down the road. "I been thinkin' about it _more_ lately, too. Made meself a plan. I figger this thing with RED, it'll be me last job." Spy's head lifted and he turned to face him more directly, mild surprise on his face. "An'…when I'm done, think I'd like t'retire there or somethin'." Sniper's eyes dropped to the rusty floor. "I got money saved, s'a good spot right between Australia an' America, the mainland I mean. Settle down an' see if I can enjoy myself there. Bet I would."

When the silence remained unbroken, Sniper glanced at Spy with trepidation. The man remained crouching next to the trunk and had turned away again, looking at him thoughtfully from the corner of his eye, smoke circling his masked head from his nearly finished cigarette.

"Go on, laugh," Sniper said defiantly. "I know ya want to."

Spy put his cigarette out on the floor, and sat down next to him. "If I laugh it will not be at that, but at other observations."

"Wot?"

"Do you know what I see, convict?" Spy looked at him with eyebrows raised and forehead wrinkled, steepling his hands over the knees tight against his chest. "I see a big, grumbling bushman, coarse and gruff and raised to be a real _man of the land_. Raised by his family and perhaps his country to be as rough and tumble as can be, the very definition of a 'manly man', so to speak. And yet, he likes knitting and sewing. He has a great many classical books on his shelf. I have seen him nip at fine brandy on occasion. He dreams of beautiful tropics and bright colors and delicate things."

Spy moved a little closer to him. "I wonder if there is in fact a rather refined and multi-faceted gentleman underneath that grizzled exterior, hm?"

The hot blush that now covered most of his features was probably going to last all damn day at this rate, in Sniper's opinion. He wasn't sure how Spy kept bringing it out of him. He'd stared down at the Hawaiian shirt in his hands as Spy had shared his observations, feeling increasingly numb. He'd never really heard himself described quite like that. There was possibly a revelation lurking around the corner, though he wasn't too sure yet. He tried to push it out of his brain for now, because the possible implications worried him. He wasn't ready to accept them.

"Yer always makin' fun," Sniper said hoarsely, still looking down.

Spy raised his right arm and gently hooked it around the other man's broad shoulders. "If I laugh, bushman," he repeated quietly, "It will not be because I am making fun."


	11. Chapter 11

"…So. You, you into footy at all?"

"Ex_cuse_ me?"

"Ya know, footy, football. An' I guess rugby, they play that in France?"

"Yes, they do, and no, I do not care much for either. Aside from following up on the World Cup and the occasional Championship, I am not a man of sport. Though I do suppose a little _pétanque_ now and again is fine."

"Pe— wot? Wossat?"

"Nfh, how to explain. It is like bowls, let us leave it at that."

"Oh, ain't never played that meself. L'il too…I 'unno."

"Mm. It is a gentlemanly game, a gentleman such as yourself should give it a try."

"Yer makin' fun again!"

"So defensive! You do not care to be a gentleman? Your little 'bookcase' says otherwise."

"Hmph. 'Ey, you a film buff? I ain't seen too many meself, ain't around TVs or theaters much, but what I have seen's been real interestin'. Ain't too picky 'bout it. Yer into them Bond movies, yeh?"

"Oh please! I have seen snippets of a few, merely out of professional curiousity. They are the very definition of rubbish."

"Well?"

"I do not watch many films, most of what is out there holds no interest for one such as me. Though admittedly I fancy a little Godard, you have heard of him?"

"Don't ring no bells, mate. He one'a them fancy poncey 'ar-teest' types?"

"…I have a feeling _you_ would not find him very interesting, bushman."

"Oh. …You listen t'much music?"

"Is this the Twenty Questions game?"

"Sorry. Just…curious, y'know? Yer a bloody goddamn mystery."

"Classical. Various French artists you would know nothing of. A little jazz and big band now and again, if I must choose. Some nice dancing music. And you, oh nosey one?"

"Just this an' that, I guess. Ain't too choosy outside of some'a this modern stuff bein' a bit much."

"You seem somewhat easy to please."

"Yer makin' me sound like some sorta simpleton!"

"How so? Overreacting, again. You are a man of the world, after all."

"Ahh, I wish. I only really been to America, an' the few bits here an' there where RED sends us. Lookin' after a base ain't really seein' a country, y'know?"

"Indeed. I myself have seen all of Europe, and most of North and South America. And a few other places besides."

"Australia?"

"_Non_. It has been of no consequence to my work so far. I know RED has an outpost there, but I am not sure if we shall ever be assigned to that position."

"What about non-work? You…think ya'd ever go there?"

"I….am not sure. It is a harsh and unforgiving place, from what I understand. A great deal of heat, poison, nothingness and…colorful citizens."

"Hey, ain't all of us a buncha hootin' Ockers, ya know! We got culture! We're buildin' a big fancy opera house an' everythin'!"

"My, now isn't that classy indeed. Though it is still so very far away, and while I enjoy travel, I am not sure I would be up to a journey like that for such an end destination."

"Hmph."

"Now now, there are so many other places in the world other than Australia. You have a wish to see some, yes? Like, say….France?"

"Whuf, I dunno. I seen pictures of the place, all them tourists. That's a lotta folks all in one spot, crowded up together…"

"Not all of France is Paris, you know."

"I guess. I….it gets so _cold_ there, all that snow…"

Silence.

"…You a dog person, by any chance?"

"I can not stand the animals, great filthy loud things. Cats are much more elegant and suitable for ownership."

"Oh. Don't care much for cats, they're a real bloody nuisance back home. Nothin' like a good dog in the yard, though."

Silence.

"…The afternoon progresses. We should probably not skip lunch, it would be suspicious. I will leave first, _adieu_ for now."

"I…yeah. Alright."

.

"What _is_ that racket? I thought you proclaimed you did not care for 'this modern stuff'."

Sniper watched Spy enter from his crosslegged seat on the van floor, the record player and box of music to his side. While he always came back to _Skyline_, Sniper had been more experimental as of late, listening to some of the other strange-looking records in the pile out of increasing curiousity. He surprised himself with how much he enjoyed most of it.

"I said some, _some _of it. Not all of it. S'interestin'."

The Spy paced silently for a short period, finally grabbing the empty album sleeve off the bed with a flick of the wrist, eyeing both sides with disdain. "Fruit on the cover, songs about drugs and kinky sex. Scandalous. I never knew you had it in you, bushman."

"It's just music, don't mean nothin'," Sniper muttered, reddening.

"But of course," Spy replied with a smirk. Setting the cardboard cover down, he regarded the bed behind Sniper thoughtfully. He strolled over nonchalantly and tested it with a gloved palm, then took a dignified seat, one leg crossed over the other.

Sniper stared fixedly at the floor. The slight squeaks and groans of the bed's ancient springs seemed to drown out the rock record effortlessly. He knew Spy was sitting expectantly behind him, waiting for some kind of move.

He could sense the gloved hand inching closer towards the back of his head. Just before it buried itself in his hair he lurched forward, standing up swiftly and beginning to pace as Spy had, hands in pockets. "Ya want me to switch records, then? There's gotta be somethin' here you'd like."

"This is getting _tiresome_, bushman," Spy said. His fingers were now drumming irritably on a pinstriped knee.

"What is?" Sniper said, trying to feign innocence. Spy gave him a look. "C'mon, it's weird fer me still, awright?"

"You did not seem to mind the _last_ time I touched your hair, _mon ami_."

Sniper had no response for that. He paced more erratically, looking down. "I keep tellin' ya! It's hard fo-"

"Yes yes, I know, it is hard for you!" Spy threw up his hands. "You say it every time! I am beginning to think you will say it forever!"

"That ain't bein' fair an' you know it!"

"_I_ am not being fair? You realize this works both ways, yes?" Spy's tone grew more acid. "If you would only-"

"Quit bein' so impatient an' lemme be!" Sniper snapped.

Spy snorted angrily, and kicked the box of records while shifting position. The prized #1 SNIPER mug sat behind it, momentarily forgotten after the most recent cup of coffee had been finished, and it tipped over with a small clatter. Sniper immediately spun in Spy's direction, moving up a step with fists clenched.

"..My mug! Don't you break my mug!"

In a flash Spy was standing as well, crouched in a fight-or-flight stance. Spy watched him carefully through narrowed eyes, muscles tensed. "Or what? You will fight me over a little cracked cup?"

"I dunno, _you_ sure look like yer itchin' fer a fight! I ain't one of yer giddy little sheilas, alright? Get that through yer skull!" Sniper stooped down and yanked the needle arm away from the record, so that now the only background noise was the occasional whirr and hiss from the spinning disc. Then he very carefully picked up the mug and set it out of harm's way. "An' the mug's special to me, okay?"

"I think you have your priorities in a very strange order, _monsieur_," Spy said coldly.

"I could say the same 'bout you," Sniper grumbled in response, his back to the other man.

"Very well."

Sniper caught the ice in those words, and heard quick footsteps. He turned just in time to see Spy exit the van with a little hop, and march away at speed. He swore under his breath and loped along after him.

"Where're ya goin'? Ya don't get yer way so ya saunter off just like that?" Sniper shouted after him.

"I am going to return to my work, I have fallen behind," Spy said coolly, not turning around as he strode. "I do not have the time to spare for silly arguments, or waiting for things that shall never come. I am leaving you be just as you wished, convict."

"Yer overreactin'!" Sniper's own anger was giving way to that nasty hollow feeling that had finally started to dissipate recently, and which he had hoped would never return. It returned now, at full force, stabbing his insides at the sight of the Frenchman's back steadily shrinking in size. "I'm sorry, okay?" he yelled desperately. "M'_sorry!_"

Spy slowed momentarily, as if he was considering his options, but Sniper saw him shake his head and redouble his pace. Sniper's feet dragged like lead weights until he finally came to a halt, and he watched Spy turn a corner and disappear. Staring at the empty spot for several minutes, his head eventually sank downwards and Sniper gazed at his dusty boots. "Piss," he said, very quietly.

Still looking down, he shuffled back to his camper van. His head was filled with nasty thoughts and depressing ones, and the hollowness lingered just like it used to. He was certain Spy was the one in the wrong here; the prissy Frenchman just couldn't wait, he couldn't understand what a big life-changing deal this was for Sniper.

Finally stopping the machine and placing the current record back in its sleeve, Sniper felt the urgent need for his old standby. Running a thumb along the edge of the black vinyl, he randomly decided on Side Two and set the record on the player, carefully pulling down the needle.

The familiar warm sound of Nashville instruments and low nasal singing crackled into life, and he sat leaning back against the camper wall, staring blankly at the ceiling. Now he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he _had_ been the one to screw things up. Like he always did. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the image of Spy's retreating back joining the backs of all the disappointed or disinterested women from his life. It hurt, thinking about how many people that was. Sometimes he wondered if he purposely sabatoged himself.

_His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean, and you're the best thing that he's ever seen…_

Why was he so timid about all this rubbish? He was a tall, strapping, grizzled mercenary, dammit. He should be fearless in all respects, including love. Maybe there _was_ something wrong with him, he worried. Too much damn time alone in the empty wilderness had ruined him. Was it too late for him? He wondered desperately how to go about fixing it.

_Why wait any longer for the one you love, when he's standing in front of you…_

Sniper gave the record player a little kick.

.

"Here y'go, Down Under, ready an' rarin' to go." Engineer patted the little square machine with a craftsman's pride. "Gave it an electrical cord _and_ a slot for batteries, just in case you don't got the outlets for it in your van."

"Yer the best, Truckie, I 'preciate it loads."

"You look like you could use it too, pardner. Sleepin' trouble an' other problems again?"

"I…nah, s'just the creepin' cold, mate," Sniper lied. He picked up the white noise machine and tucked it under an arm. He really wished he could talk to Engineer about everything, but he wasn't sure he ever could. The Texan felt like the most trustworthy and friendly person he could choose to confide in in _years_, but this particular subject matter probably wouldn't go down well, even for a forward-thinking intellectual. He'd keep the secret, Sniper knew he would, but their friendship would most certainly be changed. Sniper didn't want to damage yet another of his few connections. "Gonna have to move indoors in the next few days 'cos of it."

Engineer gave him that particular searching, thoughtful look that Sniper knew meant gears were turning underneath that close-shaved dome. He hoped they never reached a conclusion.

"I getcha. Don't stay out in it too long if it's affectin' your health," the Texan said, and went back to his workbench.

.

The BLU Scout jumped as the high-powered bullet took a chunk out of the wooden fence in front of him, and he warily jumped backwards, searching for the source. Then another bullet pinged off the railing behind him, and the young mercenary skipped forward in surprise. Another bullet went whizzing by in front of him.

This continued for several more rounds, the alarmed Scout pinging back and forth like some cheap carnival game target, until Sniper sighed and ended it with a properly-aimed shot. He took no joy in playing with his targets like the Spy did; all that came out of this attempted amusement was a gloomier, guilt-ridden mood.

He stood behind the dispenser as it self-erected, watching the other REDs come and go as they tried to hold off the latest BLU assault. Occasionally he'd pop around the corner and join them for a shot or two, but mostly he just lurked by the Engineer's little outpost while the man was off searching for more material to build up his sentry with, and perhaps find a newer and better location. Sniper's heart wasn't in it today.

Spy appeared. He circled round in a wide arc, lightly jogging towards the Engineer's setup. Pulling out his revolver he approached the dispenser, replenishing his supply of bullets and pausing to let the machine refresh him. He did so without taking so much as a glance in Sniper's direction. Sniper said nothing; he couldn't think of anything, and even if he could, this was hardly the time or place for it.

A small explosion sounded not too far away; it didn't register with Sniper. He was staring awkwardly down, rifle held in both hands between his boots like a walking stick, ears focused entirely on Spy's determined silence.

Suddenly there was a hiss of surprise, and he heard Spy running off and shouting to look out. Shaking himself out of his daze, Sniper noticed the growing shadow on the ground nearby, and blinked at it in momentary incomprehension. He looked up just in time to see the rocketjumping BLU Soldier land, lobbing destruction at anything in range.

Shrapnel and earth went flying through the air, along with Sniper himself. It was a muddled four seconds of heat and numbness and unbelievable pain that felt like it lasted forever, and if he'd been able to think straight Sniper would've felt relieved when his body smacked into a nearby wall and flopped to the ground like a broken marionette. That ended the pain quickly; everything went black and silent and the suffering stopped, and fifteen minutes later he opened his bleary eyes in the respawn room.

Standing up slowly, Sniper carefully patted himself down and felt his face and arms. It had become a habit of his lately, a little personal inspection he did every time he woke up after dying in battle. He still felt paranoid about the respawn's machinery and what could go wrong next. And perhaps a little vain; Sniper wasn't a big socializer, not by a longshot, but there was still the creeping worry of going through the rest of his life disfigured, especially undeservedly so. Just the one line across the left of his face and the nick on his ear felt like it'd garner too much attention, he didn't want more in obvious places.

He stumbled towards the exit, the nausea of respawn making him weave like Demoman on a bad day. Planning on stopping by the infirmary for a drink of water from the sink to soothe his dry throat, Sniper was amazed to see Spy in the hallway, leaning against the wall. The Frenchman was fiddling idly with his special Dead Ringer watch, flipping the coverpiece open and closed with a thumb as he stared at it. Sniper guessed it was responsible for his surviving the Soldier's attack.

Spy noticed somebody was now there with him, and he flipped the pocketwatch closed one final time, peering sideways at Sniper. The grey-blue eyes flew from head to toe, and after Spy nodded in satisfaction at the inspection he stood up straight, sliding the device into a pocket.

"All in one piece, I see. The machine has yet to claim you," Spy said calmly.

Sniper scratched his scar self-consciously, trying not to sway as he stood. "Er, yeah, guess not." It was strange, talking again, just like that. "Why'd ya come all the way over here? Shouldn't ya be sappin' shit or somethin'?"

Spy shrugged one shoulder intricately. "I am here only momentarily. The Soldier's attack was a devastating one but it did not destroy you completely as per usual; I came to see that you respawned correctly."

He paused, looking over Sniper's frame carefully once more. "Yours is a very sad corpse, you know," he said quietly. "Those long limbs in every which direction, broad shoulders and long face slumped. Like a battered puppet that's been thrown away."

Mouth opening to voice an opinion on that description, Sniper leaned forward, but then drew back, changing his mind. Sniper was practiced at noticing even little details through the ever-present golden yellow of his aviators, and one that had been nagging at him finally hit as his respawn sickness gradually cleared. Spy's expression and body language was calm and controlled as ever, but what could be seen of his face was as pale as a ghost.

"I…well here I am, good as new," he said instead. A corner of his mouth lifted in a weak half-smile, revealing an oversized canine, and he raised his hands in a vague 'ta-da' gesture. "No worries, all in one piece."

"I am glad," Spy said.

Pausing awkwardly with one or two half-starts, Sniper reached out and patted the Frenchman on the shoulder. Spy didn't touch him back, merely watched him with his trademark closed expression and nodded slightly, just once, in acknowledgement. The two men slowly made their way back to the battlefield in silence, walking side-by-side, but not too close in case of interception.

Many years and many arguments later, Sniper would occasionally reflect on the fact that Spy never apologized for his part in any of them. Never apologized, never admitted, never shared the blame; he barely even acknowleged the heated exchanges or the things said during them at all. After a cooling-off period he would go on almost like nothing had happened to begin with. The tone, inflection and actions would generally hint at the fact that he _was_ sorry, or forgiving depending on how things went, but he never actually _said_ anything. Sniper grew used to it, and it surprised him how little it actually bothered him most of the time.

He supposed that some things didn't need to be said out loud to be understood. Two people could communicate quite a lot to each other without words getting in the way.


	12. Chapter 12

Winter progressed, as it always did, and it was finally time to move indoors. Sniper had woken up that morning with frost on his breath and on the little curtained window near his shabby bed, and with an ache in his bones. That was the worst part, the ache; it seeped into all his limbs, particularly his right leg, and crept up his back into his shoulders. It made him feel like he'd aged decades overnight, like he was an old man. An older man, at any rate. Visions of tropical flowers and hot sand flitted across his sleepy mind as he shivered under the blanket.

He'd never liked the cold. At all. Sniper had been born and raised in a land of baking heat, and had never even seen snow in person until several years ago. It was beautiful, all that falling white blanketing everything, but the sight of it filled him with dread. And though snow was a rare occurrence in most of the American desert, winter there was still colder than it ever was back home. Sniper mentally kicked himself for not replenishing his bloody yarn supply yet.

Cardboard boxes were scrounged up after work that day, and he swiftly gathered up whatever loose items he felt would be needed into them; the trunks were neatly stacked near the camper's door. Sniper tried very hard not to think about how little space the entirety of his life took up.

Several books, various gun maintenance supplies, a whetting stone, a few items for knitting purposes, Engineer's white noise machine, a wind-up clock, spare aviators. Looks like he'd need just the one box. Aside from that and the communal record player and stack of vinyl he'd been hogging lately, there was only the trunks. Never in a million years would a stranger guess that here stood a wealthy man.

Thinking he'd need all the extra warmth he could get, Sniper piled his lumpy pillow and threadbare blanket on top of the clutter-filled cardboard. He'd take that first, try to get his personal things put away before anybody could snoop. Being winter it was already getting dark; Sniper hoped to be done before night had fully fallen and the temperature dropped exponentially. The last thing he wanted was to go limping about in front of his teammates.

Scooping it up he set off at a quick pace, the halls of the base empty and silent save for a slight clicking echo from his boots; everybody else was in the messhall. Sniper's indoor quarters weren't in the main living area most everyone else had congregated upon, he'd chosen a room a ways around the corner. Sniper would never have been able to stand being in the middle of multiple people like that, all the constant coming and going and noise would've left him a nervous wreck. Even though most of the others only stayed there part-time, having actual homes elsewhere, it still would've been too much.

As if he wouldn't be fidgeting anyway. After all his time out in the wild it took some effort to stay indoors for such long periods of time; the four walls of the room and the further architecture of the base around it could easily feel like part of some great big cage keeping him closed in and trapped if he didn't watch it. Even in this weather he still planned on popping outside for the occasional campfire to lift his spirits and keep that sort of neurotic feeling at bay. He gloomily decided that this was probably another thing he'd have to work on in preparation for retirement.

The door to his RED-provided room loomed, bare save for an empty nameplate slot. Sniper considered leaving it like that, to make it slightly harder for others to find and bother him. He brought a knee up against the door, balancing the cardboard box upon it as he rummaged through his pockets for the key.

"Ah, there you are. The cold finally prove to be too much for you, old man?"

Spy sauntered up with his hands in his pockets, face radiating mildly amused interest. Sniper stood awkwardly with one leg raised up high, hand on the unlocked knob. He eyed both ends of the hallway to make sure they were alone, then shrugged to himself and opened the door. "Like _you'd_ be at all happy out there, ya skinny frog." The box was rehefted and he went inside.

It was a small, basic room. Bed in the corner, a tiny window, a little table and chair with a desklamp on it, bare linoleum floor. RED hired on-the-move mercenaries, not soft little businessmen. There was no luxury to be found here.

"What're ya even doin' here?" The box was dropped on the table with a _thump_ and Sniper dusted off his hands. Worry was never too far off in his mind, still. "Won't the others notice if we're both gone at the same time?"

"What of it? If they care enough to ask, I was helping you move for the winter. That is what friends are for, yes?" Spy smirked.

They walked back and forth between the camper and the room, making small talk as Sniper's possessions were transferred. The two men chatted about the day's battle, their plans for the one the following day, little gossipy observations about their coworkers. Sniper was quietly surprised with himself at how much easier talking to the Frenchman was getting with time. It was a heartening observation.

"I thought you was s'pposed to be _helpin'_ me," Sniper complained, grunting a little as he heaved the last and largest of the trunks towards his room in an ungainly manner. It wasn't the weight so much as the size of the thing; a second pair of arms would've been useful.

"Oh but I am, I am," Spy said. He'd been circling slowly around Sniper whenever he carried something inside; sometimes to the side, sometimes in back, sometimes shuffling facing him in front. He was to the side now, hands still in pockets and nowhere near the trunk. "I am _supervising_. Mind that corner, it will slip out of your hand at the slightest bump." The Spy gave him a wicked grin.

Sniper rolled his eyes. But the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, too.

Everything was stacked up, the camper van locked and abandoned for now. While the pile was still disconcertingly small, he felt satisfaction at having everything in his room. A trip to the general store this coming weekend and he'd be set till Spring. Sniper hung his hat and bulky vest on a bedpost, and stretched his tired arms with a grunt. Spy nodded and glanced at his watch, surprising Sniper with the knowledge that the thing actually functioned as one, and started for the door.

"I suppose I should be off, there is much to d—"

"Oh! Don't go just yet!"

The words left Sniper's mouth before he realized he'd even thought them. Spy stopped and turned towards him, eyebrows raised in surprise. "…Yes?" Curious expectation was plain on his face.

Sniper's hands fidgeted nervously at his sides. He nearly told Spy to never mind, the two of them should get back to work or eat dinner or something, but his previously loose tongue was suddenly tied. For once, he was secretly glad of that.

"Well, I…we were havin' a nice chat is all, seems a shame t'cut it off so short, y'know?" Sniper rubbed the back of his head, smoothing down his wayward hair awkwardly, eyed dropping down to his boots. "Nice t'talk now an' aga—" He looked up in time to see Spy, in shirt and vest, draping his suit jacket across the back of the chair. For some reason that alone was enough to make his chest twinge. "—in. Oh, crikey," he finished quietly.

"Indeed, talking is an excellent way to pass the time," Spy said lightly, walking back to him and stopping a foot away. "Though sometimes, there are _nicer_ ways. Do you not agree?" The gun-metal blue eyes were watching him carefully.

Adam's apple bobbing and heart pounding hard, Sniper nodded silently. He looked into those steely eyes, their own nervousness not quite hidden, and the corners of his mouth twitched again. Sniper took a small step forward; they were very close now. But he couldn't move any further, he suddenly felt numb and stiff as a statue. Breathing heavily and shakily, he tried to will himself to take the next step. He couldn't. He looked at Spy with helpless embarrassment, then looked away.

And suddenly there was pressure against his body. Sniper's head snapped back with a sharp intake of breath; Spy had closed the gap himself. The Frenchman stood there, up close with his body leaning against Sniper's, his gloved hands placed gently against the man's chest. Spy stood there silently, watching and waiting with a carefully composed expression of expectant calm.

Sniper had begun to flinch at the touch, but stopped. Spy's stance was patient and unmoving, his form even began to feel pleasantly warm against his own. He stood stock-still, taking it all in, eyes darting all over Spy's face and the body against his. Sniper's hands slowly began to rise in jerky movements, until finally they placed themselves on the other man's shoulders, flicking up and down slightly as if he was touching a very hot surface.

That seemed to be alright. Something about the touch made Sniper's heart pound faster, but in a strangely good way. Spy's shoulders were so _small_, in reality. It was a detail that struck Sniper, and made him grip them a little more firmly. He was still embarrassed, but his mouth tipped over into a toothy half-grin and a strangled chuckle escaped.

Spy smiled back. It still had a smirk-ish quality to it, the Frenchman was clearly amused by his clumsy movements, but he could tell that the man was genuinely pleased. The heart-pounding wasn't enough, Sniper's stomach joined in with an odd fluttery sensation at this. He leaned in, hands leaving the shoulders and working their way down the back. He wrapped his arms stiffly around Spy, everything about his stance unsure and panicked, just barely touching.

He could feel Spy's breath on his neck. Here he was, holding another man. No; here he was, holding somebody that wanted to be held. To be held by _him_. And he could feel deep down inside that he really _did_ want to hold Spy. Sniper grasped the other man a little tighter. Here he was, holding another man. And the world hadn't ended.

The smile twitchily grew as he touched the side of his head to Spy's. The hands on his chest moved gently. He could feel the soft bumps under the mask where hair cushioned scalp, and the beat of a heart that wasn't his. Sniper grew lost in the moment, worry and fear slowly melting away. Distractedly emboldened, one of his hands moved back up, sliding across the smooth cloth of the balaclava. The large, calloused hand cupped the top of Spy's head affectionately, Sniper leaning his face further into it with eyes closed. His fingers began to unconsciously move; one of them rubbed against the upper edge of the mask's eyehole and pushed it out of place.

The moment ended more quickly than it began. Spy made a strange hissing noise and immediately jerked out of Sniper's shocked grasp, stepping backwards until he was near the door. He looked angry and affronted, his expression laced with fear. Sniper stared at him in confused bewilderment. Then it dawned on him.

"Aw, cripes, mate, I wasn't tryin' to take yer mask off! I just touched it by accident!"

"My mask is integral! It is my _life_!" Spy hissed, pacing like a cornered animal. "Never touch it like that, never intrude!" He rubbed his arms in agitation.

"I _said_ it was an accident! I know better than to do that!" Sniper said with hands held up placatingly. "I got the mark to prove it," he added, a little bitterly.

_That_ made Spy stop. He took a deep, calming breath, rubbing a hand across his face as he leaned back against the door. "Very important," he muttered.

"I know, I _know_," Sniper said. "You an' only you take it off, not…me…" His voice trailed off as something occurred to him. "Ya _were_ gonna be takin' yer mask off, right? In a few minutes? …Or…ever?"

The uncomfortable expression on Spy's face as he avoided looking him in the eye caused a sinking feeling to overtake all else inside of Sniper. He'd often wondered about the mask, the curiousity growing tenfold as the two mens' relationship changed and grew, and he had looked forward to the day when it came off. Not just to sate the curiousity, but as a symbol of something else. Now it was quickly looking like that day might never come; like it had never been coming to begin with. Running wildly, blinded by hope, Sniper had just smacked into a wall of a different kind.

"You were gonna leave it on, ya really were," Sniper said in disbelief.

"You have no _idea_ how important it is! Not even _mademoiselle_ saw!"

"So I'm no better than some slip of a sheila, is that it?" His anger flared, and Sniper sat down heavily on the bed. He remembered the infamous photos. Those should've been a tip-off. "Ya don't trust me. Or ya don't think I can handle whatever the hell's out there. Meanin' ya think I'm either a rat or a nance or both. Good t'know."

"You assume! As always! That is not it!"

"That's _exactly_ it! Unless…unless yer just in it fer kicks, just tryin' to get a lay. Unless all this don't really mean anythin' to ya."

Silence.

Spy remained pressed against the door, looking away and saying nothing. Sniper couldn't make heads or tails of his expression, but it wasn't because of it being unreadable as usual. It was a jumble of different emotions fighting for dominance and canceling each other out.

The silence was deafening. Everything Sniper had been feeling before disappeared, his insides feeling like they were cracking and breaking up into little pieces. Without a further word he sagged and crouched down low on the bed, elbows on his knees and bowed head braced in his hands.

After a while, Spy finally spoke up. "I do my best. I give and I wait, again and again," he said, in a tight, controlled voice filled with both sadness and aggravation. "You do not _know_ how much. You take and take and I get nothing. How do I know this will work? How do I know it will end well? For either of us? This is an enormous thing to ask, bushman."

He fell silent, and Sniper stayed looking at the floor. The fresh hollowness inside was pushing whatever emotion was left up into his throat in a little lump, making it hard to swallow.

"I ain't sure I can love without knowin' _what_ I'm lovin'," he said hoarsely.

"You ask for so much. Too much." Spy sounded increasingly vexed, and would probably keep repeating himself until he got agitated enough to leave.

They'd been so, so close to an important breakthrough, and here was yet another stumbling block. Right off of a cliff, if they didn't figure something out. If this all went to hell he'd probably never recover, Sniper thought dully. His insides would be so trampled on and that little pilot light snuffed out so good that it'd never feel worth it to try ever again. Why keep trying if it's just wrenching pain over and over? Emotional could hurt far more than physical ever could.

But Spy was right, dammit, a thought appeared and nagged at him. Sniper had to admit it; he'd kept the other man at arm's length. The Frenchman was snooty, he was sharp-tongued, he could be petty and childish, and for a long time he'd made Sniper's life hell just to suit his own desires. But…then he'd been honest about his feelings, and patient, or at least patient_ish_, and had done all he could to help Sniper in his agonizingly confused state. He could've flounced off in a huff immediately, but he hadn't. And here, when Sniper had finally started to give a little in return, he'd gone and asked for a great deal more at the same time.

He bit his lip, a nervous habit Sniper never seemed able to get rid of. If he wanted them to move forward, he'd have to do better than this. Sniper had assumed that the mere act of _acknowledging_ all…all _this_ between the two of them and about himself had been enough for now, but it was glaringly obvious that it wasn't. Crikey, shootin' guns at scumbags was so much easier.

Well. He knew _one_ thing he could try, though he wasn't sure if it'd be enough. It would've come out sooner or later anyway. He swallowed hard. Time to give and see what happened.

"Here, then." Sniper left the bed, standing up straight with his shoulders squared, like he was bracing himself for something. He wiped his hands on his pant legs absent-mindedly, clearing his throat. Spy watched him curiously.

Hands shaking only slightly, Sniper grasped the temple arms of his trademark aviators. He rarely took them off, even when he was sleeping. Truce periods or not, you never knew when there might be a surprise attack. Years of sleeping out in the open wilderness amongst a plethora of curious and sometimes deadly animals had also done its job. He wanted to be ready. Much like Spy and his mask, Sniper bet that most of the Team had trouble imagining him without his sunglasses obscuring half his face.

The aviators came off, and the world blurred. The frames rattled quietly in his suddenly clumsy fingers, and Sniper closed the pair with a _click_. He set them on the bed behind. He stood there, looking down at his out-of-focus boots, arms hanging at his sides with nervous fists balled. He waited.

"Wh—"

Spy had started to ask a question, but quickly stopped himself. The room went silent again, and Sniper held his breath. All he could hear was his own heart working overtime. Then there was a light clicking across the bare floor, and he caught a vague glimpse of Spy's expensive shoes gliding by. A small clacking noise, presumably Spy picking up the warm-tinted aviators, and more silence. Further clacks and footsteps.

Ruddy pinstripes filled his vision, and a gloved hand delicately grasped his chin and guided it upwards. Sniper looked up in dread, blinking. Spy regarded him critically, cocking his head in thought, turning Sniper's face this way and that gently, but firmly. The grey-blue eyes eventually locked on Sniper's pale blue eyes, and he let go.

Spy stood with thumbs hooked in his belt, head still held at a thoughtful angle. "A few wrinkles, bags under the eyes…you need some beauty rest, dear convict."

"Yer one to talk."

"Hm." A tiny smile. "Now, the eyes…As…_imperfect_ as they are, I wager that the particular shade of blue therein could perhaps inspire jealousy in our rivals." A wider, warmer smile.

Sniper's face flushed. He was turning red more often than a busted stoplight, lately. "Now yer just makin' fun again!"

"Always you assume! Not everything in life is a joke at your expense, you know," Spy said seriously. His hand cupped Sniper's chin once more, and the smile returned. "They are fine eyes, and I am glad to finally see them clearly."

Hope flickered. Sniper smiled lopsidedly back, and decided to go for broke. "You keep my secret an' I'll keep yours," he said, quietly.

The hand dropped away from his face, and Spy heaved a deep sigh. Sniper's smile disappeared and he gave the Frenchman a worried look. He'd blown it, hadn't he. But Spy merely stood there, fingers drumming on crossed arms. He appeared to be contemplating something, pursing and chewing his own thin lips as Sniper had earlier.

He sighed again, and grasped both of Sniper's arms. "Come here and close those fogged marbles, if you please." Spy looked nervous but determined.

Heart skipping a beat, Sniper did as he was bid. Spy pulled him closer, and he felt movement and pressure in various places as the other man appeared to position himself. He felt Spy's arms raise, and there was a gentle sliding, rumpling sound, like fabric being adjusted.

Hair and flesh pressed against his neck. Sniper sucked in a lungful of air, like he'd been doused with cold water, and his eyes snapped open. A head of moderately wavy black hair, smoothed back and flattened by prolonged balaclava coverage, presented itself. Spy was leaning against Sniper as he had before, this time with bared head laying against his neck and under his chin.

Sniper instinctively twitched, wanting a better look. Immediately Spy's voice sharply sounded, slightly muffled.

"Do _not_ look down, if you know what is good for you, bushman."

Delighted regardless, Sniper touched his chin to the hair, his hands unconsciously gripping Spy's slender shoulders as before. "Yer hair's all…all soft, an' pretty smellin'."

"Pre—pretty? _Pretty?_" Spy sounded indignant. "It is merely pride in hygiene and presentation! Were you expecting bristly, rough patches of smelly hide, like one of your wild pigs?"

"Aw, put a sock in it," Sniper said. He closed his eyes.

Further indignation began to issue from Spy, but halted when Sniper buried his nose in the man's hair and slowly inhaled. So _this_ was what it was like to be intoxicated by another's smell. A cocktail of warm, pleasing scents filled Sniper's air passages; shampoo and hair product and aftershave and the strange spice of Spy's cigarettes. One of Sniper's arms wrapped itself around Spy's thin frame, the other slid up and cradled the back of his head, fingers exploring and smoothing back the soft hair.

After a while Spy's hands slid across Sniper's chest and hooked themselves under his arms to grasp at his back. Sniper felt them rest upon his shoulderblades, and he held Spy tighter. The Australian was surprised at just how thin and boney the Spy really was; he had no spare flesh on him whatsoever. The suit was good at hiding most of it. He felt almost fragile in the larger man's arms, like something would snap if he squeezed too hard. He squeezed anyway.

A small piece of Sniper was standing back and watching this transpire, numb with shock and confused. He was truly enjoying this, wasn't he. There was none of the stiff awkwardness of the earlier attempt, none of the fear that had been plaguing him for so long. He was holding someone that wanted to be held, feeling their warmth and presence, resting his head on theirs and breathing them in.

Instead of his heart exploding from anxiety, he actually felt _calmer_. He felt…well, he wasn't quite sure what he felt, still, but it was better than he had in a long, long time. That pilot light was flickering and growing, and the world _still_ hadn't ended. He'd opened his eyes to gaze down at the wavy black, to memorize it, but his eyes had stung and he'd blinked furiously for some reason. He left them shut.

The two of them stood like that for a long time, silent and unmoving. Neither one complained.

.

Sniper awoke at the crack of dawn, his internal clock accurate as always. The room was a dark grey, slivers of light peeking through the blinds. He realized he was alone in the bed; the spot next to him cold, probably for some time. Spy's suit jacket was gone from the chair.

Last night had ended on another heart-thumping note, with Spy ordering him to keep his eyes closed and flicking the light switch off. The calm feeling had vanished, quickly replaced by panic and insecurity, but he was just as quickly reassured. They'd spent the night together again, doing nothing more than sleep side-by-side. Only instead of slumping on crates fully-dressed, they'd shared a bed in their underclothes.

It had definitely been an experience. The bed was made for one person, and was barely long enough for Sniper, who'd had to press himself flat against the wall to make room for Spy. His feet kept poking out over the edge as a result, and Sniper had left his socks on to keep them from getting cold. Spy had sniggered until he'd snorted. That had actually amused Sniper in turn, rather than embarrassed him. There was a growing fondness for that oh so very undignified laughter.

It was a night of awkward spooning, elbows and knees in the wrong spots, snoring, hair in the face. And yet, it was still one of the best nights Sniper had had in years. It was thrilling and soothing at the same time, having someone willingly next to you and brushing against you, keeping you warm in the dead of night. He'd started awake several times, momentarily alarmed that there was some strange man lying next to him, wondering what the hell he was doing. It spoke all too strongly of just how much time Sniper had spent sleeping alone in his life. Then the moment would pass, and he'd drift back to sleep. Things kept looking brighter and brighter.

Spy had woken up first, and quickly left without a trace left behind. Sniper assumed it was so nobody would catch him leaving the Australian's room and ask piercing questions. Despite the risk, Sniper found himself longing for it to last the whole night through at some point.

He still hadn't seen Spy's face. Just his hair, and vague outlines in the pitch darkness of the night. But Sniper knew he'd already seen more than probably just about anybody else had for years, and considered himself lucky. It had been a doozy of a step taken, for the both of them, and the future felt promising.

He busied himself with morning routine, carefully making his bed and preparing his clothes and weaponry for the day's work. He eventually heard distant door creaks and murmurs; the rest of RED had risen and was heading for the showers. Sniper grabbed his bundle of clothing and unlocked the door, padding quickly across the cold floor.

Several of the other mercenaries were milling around, lining up for their morning rituals and grunting hellos and idle chitchat at each other. Scout was hopping around like a bird, clad only in boxers almost too big for him; the Heavy was draped in a surprisingly luxurious-looking robe, standing patiently with half of one large hand tucked in its pocket, talking to Medic and Engineer. Pyro and Spy were nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, hey there Stretch!" The Engineer broke off from his conversation to greet Sniper, nodding his stubble-covered head politely. "Didn't see y'all last night, but here y'are now. All moved in for the winter, eh?"

Sniper smiled back. "Yeh, time t'put up with yer ugly mugs fer a few months. Wish me luck."

"Aheh! You're gonna need it!" Engineer let loose a wheezy chuckle, then turned to the bobbing Scout. "Boy! Stop fidgetin' already, will you? It's too early for puttin' up with your monkey jumpin'!"

"I gotta limber up, Hardhat, lemme alone!"

The door to the showers opened, and a fully-dressed and groomed Spy exited. He nodded to the REDs closest to the entrance, then swiftly marched off without another word or second glance. The Frenchman having finished, everybody else started filing into a line and making for their morning dose of hot, refreshing water.

"Y'know, you're lookin' a lot more relaxed already," the Texan said conversationally as they moved up.

Sniper had watched Spy leave out of the corner of his eye, and blinkingly refocused on Engineer. "Hm?"

"You look like you've been gettin' more sleep an' less stress! The noise machine's been helpin', yeah?"

"Oh! …Yeah. Yeah, that's it exactly." Sniper smiled lopsidedly at him.


	13. Chapter 13

"Y'know, I think you enjoyed that just a l'il too much."

Spy paused in the act of wiping down the blade of his balisong. "And your meaning, precisely?"

"You know 'xactly what I'm talkin' about," Sniper said. He was cleaning the gun grease off his hands with a rag, his kukri wedged firmly into a crack in the floorboards nearby. It was the noon ceasefire, the short period of time each day where both sides halted the carnage to grab a quick bite to eat and a breather. Yet another one of the rules Sniper wondered about.

He tossed the rag aside and leaned back against the wall of the abandoned room, watching Spy close the knife with a flick of the wrist and tuck it away. "You just about laughed yerself silly when ya stabbed that Medic. I could see ya grinnin' an' pantomimin' away through me scope."

"The BLU Medic and his lapdog had ripped apart our defenses earlier. I feel no sympathy for one who makes me wake up with such a migraine."

"Yeah, but…you were a little _too_ happy about it. An' I seen ya do that with just about _everybody_, when I think about it. Laughin' an' mockin' away." Sniper pulled a battered thermos out of his winter jacket's pocket and took a distracted sip of decaf. He cocked his head at Spy. "D'you _like_ killin'?"

Spy snorted, hard. "Oh, please! _You_ are asking me this? Mister Proud Assassin?" He reached into the opposite side of his suitjacket and extracted a small wrapped square. "Your little heel clicks are oh so charming, if not juvenile. And I have heard on occasion your own little insults shouted into the wind. Pot and kettle, _monsieur_?"

Sniper grunted into his coffee. "I…that's diff'rent!"

"_How?_"

"Well I mean, awright, there's gettin' caught up in the heat of battle. An' it's real satisfyin' to finally nail the bugger that's been tearin' ya a new one fer a while. But…_relishin'_ it, enjoyin' every one ya do, gettin' into it _that_ much…" Sniper fished out a small tupperware, protected further by foil. "I dunno, it just makes me wonder."

"Hmph. And yet 'snipin's a good job', as I once heard someone say. Somehow I do not think the BLUs would be polite back if I suddenly improved my manners." The two men unwrapped their lunches, and Spy bit daintily into a thin sandwich. "You split hairs. I do not drown kittens in my spare time, much as you do not take potshots at schoolyards."

"I…ah, ferget it." Sniper popped the plastic container open and dug into it with a spoon.

Spy sighed, and swallowed before continuing. "Our jobs are very similar, we both kill stealthily for a living. They may not be _nice_ people, but we kill for money nonetheless. I do not believe there is anything waiting for us at the end of it all, but if there is, then _both_ of us will answer for our lives led. Neither of us is better. We are both aware, and we both still do it anyway," he said a little sharply. But then he softened his tone a fraction. "Perhaps it may count that we do it as quickly and instantly as possible, and _who_ we do it to. Perhaps it may count if we mock our enemies or if we apologize to them. Perhaps not." He calmly continued eating.

Sniper frowned. As time passed he had found himself pondering his lifestyle and their jobs at RED, increasingly so lately. Spy was setting off those parts of his mind again with such blunt comments. What were they doing here? What was _he_ doing here? Was ending other people's lives a good use of his own life? He was still debating whether or not what he did here with RED counted as actual killing, considering that BLU seemed to have the respawn technology as well.

He remembered the competitions of his youth, all the little prizes he'd won for skilled sharpshooting and impeccable aim. Dad had been so proud, then. Sniper remembered the hunting trips he'd been taken on occasionally, and how he'd started going hunting alone when old enough. How the neighbors and eventually farmers in the area had paid him to take care of predators and pests, and how he'd worked his way up to culling even deadlier predators and animal over-populations in various preserves and, finally, in the endless miles of the Outback itself.

He remembered the months he'd spent out in the deep wilderness, spending days at a time tracking a particular animal. How he'd started getting paid to scare off poachers and 'take care' of the particularly nasty ones, and started dabbling in bounty-hunting. Sniper didn't like to admit it, being proud of his distant homeland, but Australia was home to some really vicious pieces of work. The sun-baked stretches of seemingly infinite emptiness did something to certain people. He desperately hoped he wasn't one of them; he'd always felt he'd been doing the world a favor in those instances. Like he was now, having been contracted by RED. Maybe.

"But things have _gotta_ count, don't they?" he said eventually. "We're keepin' BLU from takin' over the whole damn planet, ain't we? I may be a mercenary but I'm doin' good, ain't I? I'm snipin' with real _purpose_ now. I'm one'a the good guys."

"First-rate rationalizing there, bushman," Spy said dryly. "Quite top shelf. Who is to say RED is 'the good guys'?"

"But we're always defendin'—"

"Yes, defending three-story missiles and who knows what else they have tucked away in their secret corners. I cannot imagine _why_ BLU would attack." Spy stared thoughtfully down at the floor. "I notice things when on my missions, yes? One such thing being how _familiar_ many of the BLUs sound, when I am creeping up close to them. Russian, Scottish…even French, even Australian. Accents I know well and closely."

"I thought I was being promoted, do you know? I spied for _la __République Française_, now I worked for the security of half the world itself. But like I say, never assume. If _we_ are here, and _they_ are there, then which country truly belongs to whom? Which of us is on the 'right' side, and which can never go home again?" Spy's sandwich sat there in his distracted hands, uneaten. "I know all about lies and trickery and masks, and _I_ cannot make heads or tails of what is truly going on here. Perhaps there are no good and bad sides, merely winners and losers." The Frenchman shrugged and finally continued with his sandwich. "Might as well try and make sure we are on the winning side."

"Hunh." Sniper blanked for anything else to say. The lingering doubts over his contract had been dragged out into the light by Spy's little rant, and his mind swirled with muddled worry and denial. He hadn't really thought about all _that_, looked at it from that angle. He really, really didn't want to. It was all too confusing, and created a different type of hollowness inside of him. Suddenly, retirement couldn't come soon enough.

Sniper poked distractedly at his lunch with the spoon. "..What was it we were talkin' about before?" he asked in a distant voice.

"You were calling me a sadist."

"Ah. Yeah. Give it a rest, will ya? Yer better than that."

"Mm."

They ate in silence. Upon finishing his lunch Spy brushed the crumbs off his gloves, and finally glanced at Sniper's tupperware. "Just what _is_ that you are consuming?"

"Oh, s'cold stew. Was pullin' up big rocks fer a campfire yesterday an' found a fat ol' snake tryin' to sleep fer the winter. He got grumpy with me so's I took me boot to him an' now I've got a nice stew." Sniper politely held the little container out to the other man. "Y'want some?"

"I believe I shall pass," Spy said.

.

The two men lay in the cramped van, enjoying the peaceful silence. Sniper had built a fire earlier, enjoying the crackling warmth and fresh air in his quiet backcorner, when Spy had materialized and they'd decided to move to the more secure privacy of the camper. It was cold in there, but the warmth of bodies tangled together made it more than tolerable for the time being.

Sniper was self-conscious about the fact that Spy was always coming to _him_, and never the other way around. He knew it was for safety reasons, that Spy could disappear and hide in ways that he couldn't, but it still made him feel like a bad lover.

..So, he was thinking in those terms now. It certainly did feel like they were, the two of them entwined on the cramped little bed in the half-darkness. He had his long limbs around Spy, cheek pressed against the top of the man's head and arms circling his shoulders. The endless legs were curled up close for lack of space, but still strove to cover the alarmingly thin ones Spy possessed. Sniper found himself feeling more protective as this relationship went on, of all things; the other man was so much thinner, smaller, and more _delicate_ than him, that simply wrapping his body around Spy's satisfied him in ways he hadn't expected.

It was soothing, just lying there holding someone. Spy had an arm curled around Sniper's head, gloved hand buried in his hair. Not every moment of time together had to be filled with some sort of noise or activity. They dozed quietly and contentedly.

Or did, until Sniper sleepily began to shift positions and suddenly felt a thousand pins and needles stab at his right leg. He jerked into full consciousness with a grunt, trying to maneuver his half-pained, half-numb leg out from underneath Spy. It was hard to do, with something so lanky in such a small, enclosed space.

The needling increased, and he gave up trying to be subtle about his movements. He sat up and yanked the leg out and up into a crouched position, hissing under his breath and massaging it vigorously. Spy woke with a jolt of his own at the unceremonious disentanglement and frowned up at Sniper.

"Sorry, me leg fell asleep," Sniper muttered.

"A common occurrence, it seems," Spy said, smoothly bracing his shoulders against the metal wall and crossing a leg in one movement. "I have noticed your agitation with it in the cold, as well. It is hard not to, the way you bump me in the night. Anything you wish to share, bushman?"

Piss, he thought. This was always embarrassing to get into, and he'd wanted to avoid the subject as long as he could. But winter was one of Sniper's greatest enemies in life, and it was difficult to keep from limping on the worst days. "S'just an' old injury what acts up now an' again, nothin' much," he muttered, more quietly.

"Oh? And what sort of injury was it?"

"You'll just laugh."

"I am starting to feel I should keep a scoreboard of all the times you say some variation of that. Am I never to know?"

Sniper sighed, and shut his eyes. "I stepped on a platypus when I was younger."

When the braying laughter and choked snorting finally died down, Sniper plunked his booted feet on the floor of the van and glowered at Spy. "Thanks, thanks very much, I 'preciate it. Them spurs _hurt_, ya flippant frog!"

Spy wiped away a tear of mirth and sat up straight, crossing his legs fully and patting Sniper on the shoulder. "Fine, so sometimes there is no avoiding laughter. But it is not always so bad, put up and go on, yes?" Spy smirked at him. "Bad eyes, bad leg, awkward as the day is long…you are _quite_ the catch, _Nez Rouge_."

"Yer just jealous," Sniper scoffed, trying to save face. He stood up and brushed imaginary lint off his bomber jacket, ignoring the ache in his right leg. He made to go check on the campfire, but Spy was up in a flash with arms around his waist.

"And skin as thin as parchment!" Spy cackled. The two of them stumbled sideways, Sniper unprepared for the grab and fidgeting sideways to pull the man in front of him. He knew Spy was just teasing, in his own particular way, but it definitely still took getting used to. The move had startled him.

"Oi, leggo you!" Sniper managed to get the Frenchman in a firm grip, held fast in a close, tight bearhug, and his back thumped into the van wall with a metallic _thud_.

Sniper froze. He was flat against the wall, Spy in his arms, their faces inches apart. He was breathing heavily, he could feel the heat creep up his neck. It wasn't easily visible in the gloom, but he was certain Spy was reddening as well. Spy's arm slunk out and pushed Sniper's aviators up onto his forehead, a wicked grin splitting his face. His eyes and teeth were reflective in the half-light, and this close Sniper could see the nervous hope that outlined the smirking playfulness. His heart thumped.

"You-" He stopped. There wasn't a _thing_ he could think of to say that wasn't foolish or out of place or pointless. Somewhere deep inside, far past the fear and nerves and uncertainty, the pilot light surged, and set everything in reach aflame. Sniper felt the odd burning feeling spread throughout his body like trails of lit oil, igniting parts of him that had been all but forgotten.

His hand began to move up and down Spy's back like it had a mind of its own; his mouth twitched and his nostrils flared as he struggled to keep his heavy breathing under control. Sniper felt like he was burning up from the inside out, like he might have a heart attack at any moment. And yet, it all felt so _right_.

Spy must have sensed it, because the man lunged forward and before Sniper could even blink he was learning just what a french kiss was. Sniper's eyes bugged in shock and he lurched, emitting a muffled noise of protest that quickly dwindled into nothing.

Several minutes later their lips parted, and Spy watched him carefully, still smirking but with his mouth alone. Sniper stared at him, still breathing heavily. Then a feral growl rumbled in his throat, just on the edge of hearing.

The camper became a cacophany of dull noise as the two men blindly whirled around it in half circles and zig-zags, tripping along the grooved floor and bumping into walls, grasping at each other's clothes while apparently attached at the face. Sniper couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed like this. _Had_ he ever kissed like this? It was passionate and invigorating and made him blaze like a bonfire inside. Spy had somehow managed to work the bomber jacket off of Sniper's frame without him even noticing; he was still fiddling with Spy's tie and vest buttons. He felt like he was his novice seventeen-year old self again, grasping wildly at mysterious trappings that led to who knew what.

Ancient bedsprings squeaked as their bodies hit the small mattress, Spy grunting slightly at Sniper's weight on top of him. A small part of Sniper's hindbrain was _screaming_ at him, losing it over the fact that he was leaning over another man; another man who had his arms around his neck and was kissing him savagely over and over. Losing it over the fact that these two men were half-dressed and quickly becoming _less_ so, and that a very particular thing was most likely about to happen.

These thoughts sent a spark of terror up his spine, and Sniper momentarily paused in the midst of the passion, gasping for breath. He was down to his undershirt with his belt unbuckled, Spy's dress-shirt nearly off. Sniper's eyes focused on the sparse, dark hair on the thin chest below him, eyebrows upturning in confused doubt as the fear started to take hold of him. What was he doing here. _What was he doing here?_ He hadn't the foggiest where to go next, or if he even had it in him to do it.

But Spy pulled him closer, murmuring something in French that he couldn't understand but which at least _sounded_ encouraging, kissing him just under the jaw. The doubts and fear disappeared, melted away by the reignited fire. Sniper kissed him back, awkwardly but determinedly. His undershirt was being pulled upwards by gloved hands; he finished yanking Spy's shirt off and ran his calloused hands across bare skin as the Frenchman's undershirt came off. His chest, his arm, his shoulder, smooth, minimally hair-covered flesh giving way to strangely smoother, puckered-feeling flesh…

Sniper paused again, the unexpected change in texture bringing him back down to earth. He pulled up, frowning down at the other man. He thought he could see a dark blotch on his left shoulder. "Wot..?"

"It is nothing," Spy said, still kissing his neck. "Do not stop, _mon amant_."

He leaned in closer, squinting at the man's body in the gloom. He had only ever encountered Spy in his underclothes so far, and in the dead of night to boot. "No, lemme see," Sniper said, reaching for the shoulder.

His hand was swatted away. "It is not important!" Spy said, rather testily.

"It is t'_me_," Sniper replied firmly. His hand went exploring.

It was scar tissue; the dark, disturbingly smooth kind that represented a healed-over burn of great strength. Sniper's eyes and hand traced its shape across Spy's thin frame. It was mainly one big puckered mass that stretched over Spy's left shoulder and down half his back, snaking tendrils twisting down his left arm and side, with isolated spots here and there. Maybe it had been the lighting or the angle, but Sniper didn't remember seeing this in BLU's photographs. Was it recent?

Even in the unlit camper, Spy's expression of impatience and defiant embarrasment was easily readable. "So I made the mistake of surviving a confrontation with a Pyro, what of it," he muttered irritably. "Do not tell me you are shocked to see scars on a fellow mercenary."

Sniper remained silent, his eyes still traveling across the man's thin body. The burn scar climbed upwards, the last big tendril disappearing under the edge of the balaclava.

A strong determination overtook Sniper. "Take off yer mask," he demanded.

Spy stared at him like he was crazy. "Has all the blood drained from your brain already? Non!"

"Take off yer mask," Sniper repeated.

"Again you ask for so much! I cannot give this, I will not!" Spy slipped out from under Sniper, rising and perching on the far corner of the old mattress. "All I say falls on deaf ears, apparently." He looked disgruntled.

"Spy, I ain't just some dreamy sheila charmed by yer mystery! I _need_ to know."

The Frenchman remained upset, chewing his lip with arms crossed. He looked like he needed a cigarette badly, and like he might flee at any moment. Sniper feared making him run off, but he had to press on. Not just for himself, but for Spy too, he felt. There was a growing suspicion that the man hadn't been challenged by a lover in a long time, if ever, and was set in his paranoid ways. And if there was one thing Sniper knew, it was the danger of getting set in your ways. The mask had to come off.

"I bet yer _warty_ under there," Sniper said, trying for joking reverse-psychology. "Yer all ugly an' covered in warts an' hairs an' ya don't want me t'see 'cos I'll run fer the bloody hills."

"_Wa—_," Spy was momentarily ruffled, but quickly recovered. "..Hmph. Almost, bushman, _almost_. I give the attempt a six-point-eight." He scratched the edge of an old burn on his arm distractedly.

Heaving a sigh, Sniper sat down on the opposite corner of the camper bed. Feeling incredibly self-conscious about the fact that he was half-dressed, he pulled his undershirt back down for the moment. His insides were this close to being ripped in half by dread-filled uncertainty and confused desire.

"I…Look," Sniper said, staring down at his nervously twiddling thumbs. "I _know_ it's a big thing t'ask. But…I'm givin' you somethin' big too, y'know? I'm givin' you _myself_." His voice took on a shaking, strangled quality; Sniper hated himself for sounding so weak. "But I can't if I don't know who I'm givin' myself _to_. I can't do that."

He looked very hard at Spy. "I want _you_, not some mask or a blank nobody. I can't do anonymous."

Silence. Spy looked down, apparently engrossed with something on one of his expensive shoes. Sniper grinned desperately. "Alright, myself an' some o' that runny French cheese ya like, deal? …Or maybe some wine? D'ya want red or whi-"

"You are prattling, please stop," Spy interrupted. He sighed, and massaged his temples with the long, thin fingers on one hand. "_Merde_, but you will be the end of me." The Frenchman stood up and rounded the van, checking the lock and peeking carefully out of the curtained window and door port before placing himself directly in front of Sniper.

Spy stood there scowling down at him, arms rigidly crossed. Sniper guilelessly gazed back up at him, trying to look as serious as a man with his pants undone and his sunglasses pushed on top of his head could.

Swearing under his breath, Spy's frame sagged minutely, and he rubbed his temples again. "You _will_ be my end," he grumbled. Reaching up slowly, he hooked his thumbs under the bottom edge of his balaclava. There were several false starts; Spy's hands appeared loathe to rise above his adam's apple. His lips went thin and he glared at Sniper. Then the Frenchman's hands shot up in a blur and whipped the mask off, much like a man ripping off a bandage to get the pain over with in one short shock.

Sniper held his breath, afraid to ruin the moment. He wasn't the least bit annoyed or mad when Spy chucked the mask at him, the crumpled red cloth flopping onto his head. He merely moved it out of the way, setting it and his aviators aside. His gaze didn't leave Spy the whole time. He was lost in surpise, having only half-expected the man to actually comply.

The word that immediately came to Sniper's mind was _sharp_. Spy not only wore sharp suits and used sharp knives and sharp words, but had sharp features. The nose was pointed and the cheekbones angular, both moreso than he had expected; the stretched cloth of the balaclava had blurred their dimensions. His hair was short and smoothed back, but had a definite aura of waviness to it. It curled and stuck out in several places, not wholly tameable by whatever fancy, sweet-smelling product Spy put in it. Sniper had stroked it many a time in the dead of night, but it was wonderful to see from another angle.

And then there were the scars. The old burn that had so caught Sniper's attention made its way up a healthy percentage of Spy's neck, and came to a rest just at the very lefthand edge of his thin, pointed jaw. Various nicks and cuts vied for Sniper's thirsty attention; one cut a swath across his forehead into the man's immaculate hairline, another lay close to the nose under one eye. Here was a very handsome man, but one more worn down than anticipated. Subtle lines here and there hinted that he was definitely Sniper's age at the very _least_.

"Well?" Spy's eyes had been darting ceaselessly around the interior of the camper, increasing their speed as the silence continued. He looked as if he fully expected a BLU or some other mortal enemy to burst through the walls at any moment, but also nervously hopeful. "For all this trouble I had better hear _something_ good, oh silent one."

"Yer…yer very…" Sniper struggled to find the right words. Crikey but he was bad with words. He'd never needed them out in the bush. "Ya look very French," he finished lamely.

Judging by the way the other man's forehead crinkled in indignation, those had most certainly _not_ been the right words. In the midst of being embarrassed a small part of him quietly admitted its fondness for that easily-creased forehead. It added just the right amount of quirk to Spy's expressions.

"_French?_ That is all you can say? I look _French_? What does that even _mean_?"

"I dunno! S'all I could think of! I ain't too good at this! But…that ain't a _bad_ thing, is it?"

Spy's roving eyes had ceased their paranoid movement and were settled on Sniper, one sharp eyebrow raised. "Hm," was all he said.

"Hrngh. C'mere." Standing up, Sniper took hold of Spy's arm and pulled him back into his own long-armed grasp. He wanted a better view of the man in this gloom, up close. His hands slid up to Spy's head and rested on either side of his jaw, large calloused thumbs carefully exploring the marks on his face. Spy's face filled his entire field of vision; he was vaguely aware of the thin arm slinking around to his back.

He considered Spy's battered form as compared to his own. He had a fair few scars and other issues, to be honest, and no mask to hide the slit across his face like the other man. But in comparison…

The sight of them jogged his memory, and a snippet of conversation from what seemed like ages ago materialized in his forebrain. This was all so overwhelming, right now.

"I guess you were right," he said quietly, thumbs still caressing. "I guess it _could_ be worse." Oh ruddy hell, his eyes were stingin'.

The Spy looked confused for a moment, but realization dawned quickly. His mouth twitched, and he shook his head a fraction. "You know, for such a stoic 'professional', you are really quite a soppy thing. What of those standards you keep going on about?"

"Standards is for on-the-clock, spook," Sniper said, blinking furiously. He buried his nose in the Frenchman's hair, wrapping his arms around his thin shoulders. "I'm only human, y'know."

"Do shut up already, convict," Spy said, kissing his neck.

Not too long after, the camper van lurched sideways for a split second before settling back to earth with a cloud of dust. Sniper was intensely relieved; he didn't think he could deal with trying to explain himself if it had fallen over on its side.

.

Sniper lay there, staring at nothing in particular. The parts of him that weren't pressed up against Spy were cold, and growing colder as the sweat dried. He was spent, he was tired, he was nauseous. He was exhilarated and content, he was screaming inside for a shower and to scrub himself raw. He wondered how surreptitiously he could do his laundry, and if he could pass off his stiffness as just his leg acting up. This was a whole new world of experiences and compromises and education, holy dooley.

That had probably been one of the worst conversations he'd ever had in his life, those few minutes of size comparison and who should probably do what and how. A little flattering too, in retrospect, but only briefly. There'd been pain and embarrassment and pure fear; fear of a sort he'd never experienced on the battlefield. But it had been followed by highs he hadn't felt in years, if he'd felt them at all. Highs punctuated by Spy's voice murmuring in his ear with the silk turned up to maximum.

Well, it was said that this sort of thing tended to get better with time. He'd try it at least once more. Maybe twice.

Sniper lay there, listening to Spy's rhythmic breathing and feeling his warmth. He smiled a little.


	14. Chapter 14

The weekend arrived, and Sniper finally made his way back to town. He'd borrowed Engineer's truck for the ease of transportation, Scout and a heavily layered and hooded Pyro in tow. Multiple hours of the young Bostonian trying to make up for the silence of his companions was taxing, but the trip had to be made.

He'd returned with a slightly larger bounty than on previous trips. There were the usual little odds and ends, plus a sizeable pile of yarn balls of many colors, but Sniper had been overtaken by a desire to splurge a little. He had plenty of money, why not actually _use_ some of it? Not a whole lot, he still had retirement in mind after all, but there was no harm in spending a few dollars after spending _nothing _for so long. A shiny new record player and stack of albums sat on the little table, waiting to be unboxed. Some of the other REDs had started to complain about his hogging the old ones, and Sniper had decided it was high time he had his own personal set. He wondered if this counted as a new hobby. He could probably use a few.

A small rug covered a portion of the cold floor; the bed now had an earth-toned quilt on it. He still wasn't entirely sure about the quilt. It was thick and soft and warm and would make excellent additional comfort for the cold winter…but it was a _quilt_. The woman at the register had given him an odd look, eyes flickering over the scar on his grizzled face. It wasn't usual fare for a mercenary outdoorsman.

But he'd thought Spy might like it, with its subtle patterning and color scheme, and he'd had a vision of the two of them holding each other tight under it in the chilly night, and that had been enough.

He ran a rough hand along the stitched surface of the quilt. It was funny. He was really starting to feel more comfortable indoors; the need to dash outside for a brief respite from the closed-in architecture of the base was occurring less and less. Sniper didn't see himself ever becoming 'domesticated', but it was fuel for the fire inside. For once, something boded well for life after RED.

Perhaps it all came down to loneliness; the particular type of loneliness he'd experienced for years without ever quite realizing it. When you were outdoors, it was easy to be lulled into the feeling of always having company of some sort, even when you were the only human around for miles. As empty as a place might look, there were almost always insects and other tiny creatures just out of sight. If nothing else there were always plants, shifting in the breeze, drinking up sunlight and water. There was always the sensation of having something _alive_ nearby.

But when you were in a room…that was it. There was nobody there, just you. Just you and the silent, looming walls that boxed you in. That was when you _really_ learned what 'alone' meant.

It had taken Sniper years, but he'd finally realized this. Matters were still complex, unfortunately, he got uncomfortable around crowds; it was hard to find that magic number of people he could tolerate for a period of time without getting nervous and twitchy. One seemed to be a good number so far, at least. With Spy around, a room was just a room and could actually be very pleasant to inhabit. Slowly but surely he worked away at making such a room more personal, more _his_, and the outdoorsman found himself quite happy in it. Maybe eventually he could say the same about other things.

"And what is _this_?"

He jumped. Spy was standing right next to him, looking at the object of Sniper's focused attention with cool interest. He hadn't even heard the door open and close.

"Don't _do_ that!" Sniper snapped, glancing back at the door. "Did anyo—"

"_Non_, no one was around. Do you think I would let someone see me?" The cigarette shifted from one corner of the Frenchman's mouth to the other. "So what is this quaint little thing? A gift for your mother?"

Heart sinking, Sniper's hand fell back to his side. "Oh. Well, I, y'know. It's winter an' quilts is warm, an'…I know ya like dark reds an' browns an' fancy patterns, so…" His voice trailed off in embarrasment. Spy's eyes swivelled up to his face.

"I am sure it will be quite…serviceable," Spy said delicately.

.

_Raspberry, strawberry, lemon and lime…_

Spy's eyes snapped open. "Pies. He is singing about _pies_. Your musical tastes leave something to be desired on occasion, convict."

"Took me a few listens t'get it," Sniper said sleepily, eyes shut, "But I don't think he's really singin' about pies."

The newly purchased record spun on, the cheerful song playing low and uninterrupted as the two figures lay there under their miscellaneous blankets and quilt, listening. Spy's eyes narrowed.

"Oh," he said. "How _droll_." He rolled over and tucked his head under Sniper's.

.

The door slammed, echoing in the empty hallway. Sniper ran one clenched fist across the wall as he stomped off in silent anger, occasionally pounding it against the flat surface. A second pair of heated footsteps clicked off into the opposite direction in the distance.

Bloody goddamn poncey-ass stubborn spooks! Every time things seemed to be going really well something always came out of nowhere to disrupt it, and it almost always ended in a flaming row. Few people could argue like a pair of mercenaries, or at least do so and survive intact.

Well, maybe it wasn't _all_ out of nowhere. There were predictable things, like Spy being too snooty about something for Sniper's tastes, or Sniper being too unrefined for Spy's. A fair few arguments flared out of one trying to cajole the other into coming to their homeland; it always began as an innocent word or two about vacations and wound up as a plea for something else. But the greatest source of conflict came out of one particular subject matter: what Spy was going to do after the contract ended.

It had seemed a small issue, when it first popped up. But it had grown and grown, each conversation over it becoming more heated, more quickly. Sniper knew the retirement of a good spy wasn't a simple matter, even one that was beginning to procure a few grey hairs. But he _also_ knew that it was possible, that it _could_ be done. Not everything was like in the movies. He wondered how much was Spy's workaholic nature, and how much was a refusal to come to terms with his aging.

Among the many things that kept Sniper up at night, this was now chief. It was all too easy to imagine himself sitting alone, waiting, while Spy was getting up to God knows what, and with _who_. Or Spy's luck finally running out for good, with no respawn to fix everything, leaving him alone permanently.

He'd only just found a solution to his loneliness, he didn't want it all falling apart already. Bloody goddamn po—

"The hell wos that aboot?"

Sniper jerked to a halt, hand raised to pound against the wall once more. He'd been lost in his angry thoughts and had nearly walked right into Demoman and Engineer. They stood in the hall of the main living area, obviously just finishing up a conversation of their own, and were staring at him.

Fist slowly unclenching and lowering to his side, Sniper tried to save face. "Oh, just, y'know…'nother argument with the folks. Nothin' much."

The Scotsman nodded understandingly. "Aye, I ken wot ye mean. M'mum's always on m'case aboot everythin' too, an' that's _with_ her suppoortin' me line o' work."

"Parents, eh? I guess it's the same no matter _what_ ya do fer a livin'," Sniper said, smiling nervously.

"Ach, ain't that f'sure." Demoman nodded to Engineer and began to walk away, rubbing his head. "Jus' try not t'slam so many doors after, a'right?" He waved to the two of them as he rounded a corner.

"Sure thing, mate, sorry," Sniper said. He waved back, even though the other man was already gone.

"There ain't any phones in this part of the base, you know."

Engineer was leaning back against his bedroom door, arms crossed. His face was strangely neutral, but his eyes were locked onto Sniper with a searching intensity that made the Australian nervous.

"Er…that so?"

"Yep. Only a handful'a phones in the whole complex, an' only one's for personal use. Clear across the base. An' you just came outta your room."

"Oh. So I did." Sniper didn't like where this was going.

"I ain't callin' the others dumb, anythin' but," Engineer continued, his hands shifting to his workbelt, "But they don't notice some things like I do an' they're a mite easier to convince with the rest."

"Truckie, I.."

"I don't like bein' lied to, Down Under," the Texan said, sharply.

"But I wasn't—I didn't mean…!" Sniper was growing paler by the moment. There was nothing worse than a fear coming true. Engineer was one of the best mates he'd ever had, and it looked like he'd blown it. "Truckie, c'mon!"

"Truckie nothin'. Helluva thing, knowin' you trust the spook more'n the rest of us. More'n _me_." And with that, the diminutive man opened the door behind him, and quietly slid inside without another word.

The door shut and the lock clicked firmly, a noise that echoed in Sniper's despairing ears louder and longer than any door slam. The worst part was knowing that he'd have probably done the same in Engineer's position.

.

Later that evening, Sniper timidly approached the man's campfire, a bottle of fine brandy tucked in the crook of one arm. Engineer said nothing, but eventually made room on the large split log for the other man to sit. They both knew that when Sniper broke out the brandy it was for a special occasion or some other important reason. Like saying sorry.

"I _wanted_ t'say somethin', mate," Sniper said quietly. He gestured to Engineer to hold out an empty beer bottle, and he carefully poured several fingers of the quality alcohol into it. "But I didn't know _what_. The hell you say about somethin' like that to a friend?" Engineer's head tilted towards him. "Didn't want ya t'think less of me. Or think I'd be hurtin' the Team." His nervous hands tightened around the neck of the bottle.

Engineer let out a long, low sigh, and sampled a small mouthful of the brandy. "Ahhh, I know, fella. You hidin' things hurt, 'specially since I felt like I was gettin' tossed t'the side. But I know why you did. Sometimes logic don't always win out, I s'pose."

"Sorry, Truckie. Fer what it's worth." Sniper held out a hand.

The other man regarded it for several long moments. Just when Sniper began to fear things were no good, Engineer finally extended his free hand and shook it. "It's worth plenty, big guy."

Sniper smiled in relief. They sat in silence for a while, sipping at their respective drinks. Some minutes later, Engineer cocked his head at him again.

"But…Spy? _Really?_ I seen cats an' dogs better suited to each other." The Texan's nose was crinkling at the thought. "That Spy, he's—"

"…A bit better than ya'd think. I was amazed too, mate, but we seem to do alright. I dunno what else to say, though."

"That's just fine, spare me the details." Engineer looked away, taking a pull at his brandy. It made Sniper's insides twist a little to see the faint hints of how uncomfortable his friend was with the subject matter.

More silence, another cock of the head.

"Y'know, I never figured _you_ of all people for a queer, Stretch."

"Trust me, neither did I." Sniper looked down at his hands and the bottle clutched within them, reddening.

After a moment's hesitation, Engineer gently patted him on the shoulder. Sniper's head lifted and he gazed at the Texan with a quirked eyebrow. The man looked conflicted but determinedly supportive above all else, so a little half-smile appeared on his long face.

"If it makes ya feel better, Engie, I ain't attracted in the least to a single one of you other ugly old bastards."

Engineer let out a rough belly laugh at that. "Thanks, pardner. I _think_."

.

He started awake with a convulsion, gasping for breath and sweating despite the cold. For several seconds he couldn't move, the sleep paralysis loathe to release its grip on his body. It only added to Sniper's panic, and when his limbs were finally under his control again he grasped jerkily at his chest, willing his poor heart muscle to settle down.

He'd never had as many nightmares as he did here at RED, especially after the respawn incident. Sniper thought he'd seen it all and was used to it as well, but his unconscious mind kept throwing alarming images and deep doubts at him in the dead of night.

Spy dying, his various friends and Teammates dying, Sniper himself dying; all permanently. The respawn suddenly breaking, and the people who'd put their trust in it disappearing forever. His disapproving parents giving up on him for good, telling all his other relatives to shun him as well. The contract with RED going on and on and never ending, with Sniper stuck in this endless, futile game of a battle forever. Doors that should've remained locked being opened, revealing the horrible truths that Sniper had thrown his life away to fight for. The respawn suddenly breaking, and the people who'd put their trust in it waking up scarred or horribly maimed, with no hope of recovery.

That last fear had been the focus of Sniper's latest nightmare. He'd been blown up a number of times, here on the RED battlefield, but not all of them had been instant deaths. The pain and agony played out in slow motion in his dreams, coupled with the terrifying numbness of body parts damaged beyond repair. Or worse, not even there anymore.

He'd lain there, shattered, possibly in pieces, feeling his life force drain away. Everything had gone black, then grey, then white, as he'd regained consciousness in the respawn room. Then the horror had gripped him, filled him up and choked him, as it stole upon him that the revered machinery had malfunctioned once again. The sleep paralysis had had its secret influence, and he'd lain there, struggling futilely, a maimed and broken man, as Medic and Spy and all the rest stood over him, looking down with disgust and pity. Spy had—

The now-awake Sniper held his breath, several details finally hitting him in the dark silence. A gentle, rhythmic sighing reached his startled ears, and the hair on his body stood on end at the presence of another living creature close by. He rolled over, and there was Spy, sleeping not more than half a foot away.

Sniper boggled at the back of the man's head. How the hell had the Frenchman gotten into the locked, quiet room without him noticing? _Again?_ And then gotten into bed with him at that? He really _was_ a top-notch spook.

The nerve of the bugger, Sniper thought to himself, a flush of anger rising to replace his night-time terror. No apology, no nothin'. A vicious argument, one caused by _Spy_ and his refusal to commit to any possible future, and hours of silence and avoidance. All that and he thought he could just waltz right into Sniper's bed like he owned it? _Like hell!_

…But it was incredibly calming, having someone nearby in the dead of night like this, to distract from the nightmares and worries. Sniper wanted to give the Frenchman a piece of his mind, but the urge was rapidly fading. His heart rate and breathing slowed to normal, his tense, shivering muscles relaxed.

This was silly, crikey. He was a grown man, a mercenary. It was starting to get annoying, the amount of times he'd had to repeat this to himself lately. Only little children and excitable sheilas got this relieved by sleeping with someone near. He—

A small snort issued from Spy as he unconsciously adjusted his position under the covers. He slid backwards some, and when he bumped into Sniper's form he sleepily slurred several words in French. He remained there, thin frame pressing against Sniper.

To hell with it, Sniper thought with a sigh. He moved closer to his…his lover in resignation. Shutting his eyes, he eventually fell back asleep, and had a much more sound rest for the remainder of the night.

.

The days went by speedily, one following the other in quick succession. Everybody huddled indoors to hide away from the deep winter when not in battle, though Sniper, Engineer and a few others still ventured outside for a campfire in the fresh if bitterly cold air once in a while. Crazy backwards American weather, the marksman would think, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"So when're ya gonna take the mask off?" Sniper asked suddenly one afternoon. He was sitting at his tiny bedroom table, long legs stretched and jutting out from underneath to a ridiculous degree.

Spy's steely gaze tore itself away from the window to settle on the seated Australian. "We are well alone, so now if you wish." The gloved hands began to rise.

"Oh! No, that ain't what I meant. Though you can still do that if ya want," Sniper added hastily. The Spy went maskless nearly every time they were together in private now, day or night. It filled Sniper with a sense of well-earned privilege.

"No?" It stayed on, the Frenchman's brow wrinkling considerably. "Explain."

Sniper's stubby pencil tapped a nervous beat on the surface of the table. "Well, I mean. When're ya gonna take it off fer _good_?"

The other man's eyes narrowed. "If this is yet another attempt to press me into retirem—"

"Look, I don't wanna argue again!" Sniper said wearily. "I was just curious, is all. _Whenever_ yer all done spyin', wotcha gonna do? S'odd, thinkin' of you takin' that ol' thing off an' _leavin'_ it off. Ya gonna use yer disguise kit instead?"

"If I give up the balaclava, why should I continue with disguises?"

"Well…y'know. The…the scars. Ya ain't gonna cover 'em up?"

Spy looked at him in disbelief. "You think me _that_ weak? _That_ vain?"

"Yer startin' to do a lot of assumin' yerself, mate!" Sniper frowned. "I just wonder 'bout attractin' attention is all. We're both pretty beat up, but yers is more obvious. That's a whole lotta starin' an' shit comin' down the line."

"Let them stare," Spy said with a contemptuous wave of the hand. "I was in an accident, or perhaps I am a veteran of the war in south-eastern Asia. France has a history there, and I have read about many of your fellow countrymen making the journey there lately." He looked pointedly at Sniper.

Well didn't he just think of everythin'. "I s'pose. But—"

"A secret agent takes great care with his identity, yes? However marked I am, it is hidden away, just like everything else about me. When I am done I may take off the balaclava and melt away into the crowd, having both never existed and being already gone. What enemies I have accumulated over the years would not know where to begin, and with any luck we would both be old enough for them to no longer care."

"Alright, alright." Sniper looked down at his half-written letter. "I just hope my ugly mug hangin' around don't make it easier for 'em."

Spy paused at that. "I am sure it will not be an issue," he said eventually.

A few more sentences were skritched out; the rapping of the pencil on the table repeated itself. "Piss, what do I say," Sniper muttered, staring at the page.

"Say about what, dearest convict?" Spy seemed glad at the change of subject. "Is it yet another letter to home sweet home?"

"Yeah, it is." The fretful lip-chewing began. "I still don't even know what t'say about me cut-up face, let alone _you_."

The Spy inspected his gloved fingers, apparently unconcerned. "So say nothing. It is no business of theirs what you do with your life."

"But they're family! They're me _parents_!"

"Fine, fine. There will be a good time eventually to say, I am sure. If not…well. It is still your life, to do as you wish. Do not frown so, it deepens the lines on your face."

"Yer a right pain in the arse, is what you are."

"Quite. In more ways than one, possibly." The smirking Spy leaned with his cheek in his hand, elbow propped on the bushman's shoulder.

"Yer _awful_."

"You have no idea, convict."

"You gonna keep goin' with this 'last word' thing?"

"Possibly." The elbow was removed, chin and hands were shifted to the top of his head. Sniper could _see_ the wicked grin. "As if you would want it any other way."

.

The days ran by, sprinting and shoving each other out of the way. The RED Team members present at that point of the battle were shocked at the sheer amount of feral rage with which Sniper attacked the BLU Pyro; in all their many months together they'd never seen him so _angry_. The man fought close personal combat only when he absolutely had to, especially on the frontlines; seeing him charge in red-faced and bellowing was something else altogether. Even Soldier was taken aback at the ferocity.

Maybe it had something to do with the RED Spy's latest death? The laser sight of the rifle had lit upon the thin, charred corpse sprawled brokenly on the ground, and after shaking violently it had winked out; less than a minute later and the BLU Pyro was so surprised at what came next they didn't have time to react.

The force of the enraged Sniper's kukri blow gutted them instantly, but even when dead the man was still stabbing and slashing at the body, kicking and spitting at it, and several of the REDs had had to drag him away before any of the stunned BLUs snapped out of it.

That night Spy kept wincing and complaining, telling Sniper to relax his grip on him before he ground his damned bones together. Sniper would silently comply, but it wouldn't be long before his haunted mind thought about the sad little burnt body in the dirt or how much he'd _enjoyed_ killing that Pyro, and his grip would retighten. They huddled under the bed's many layers, Sniper afraid to let go of the other man for too many stupid reasons to count. It was a rough night's sleep.

.

The days began to blur and melt into each other. Sniper was shocked when he realized it was nearly Spring already, where had the time gone? The ridiculous stalemate of this private war was starting to get to him; he began to remember nothing of the days and weeks and months but the time he spent with his French companion, and bits and pieces of that with the other REDs. He'd never felt so stir-crazy in all his life. How much time was left in his contract? He couldn't remember, he hadn't seen the thing since he'd signed it nearly two years ago, and even then the details had been a little hazy around the edges. Sniper sure hoped he hadn't accidentally agreed to a contract period of 'Forever'.

He had to get out of here, the job was making him feel more claustrophobic than an empty locked room. Sniper wanted to flee, to run with Spy to wherever and never look back. He was sick to death of all the fighting, blood, pain and, well, death. Dying so much wore you out. As did so much killing, even if it wasn't _real_ killing. But he was a Professional, with a capital P, and he wasn't about to break an agreement. He'd just look into it next chance he had.

Snipers were patient, it was their entire job to be patient. He could wait it out. He was overreacting was all. It was going to be over any day now, he was sure of it, then he could get on with his life. Any day now.

Probably.

.

Life was a blur; a worried, fretful blur with little pleasant moments in it here and there. Sniper lay in dozing contentment, discovering the joy of sleeping in during the weekend with someone in his arms. The early Spring was still too cold to put away the quilt and various additional blankets, and the two men were entwined together under the pile, enjoying the silence and each others' warmth. Both were early risers by nature, but there was something to occasionally letting a few hours roll by like this.

Spy's head was propped against Sniper's shoulder, their arms tangled together, and he was gazing up at the ceiling. Sniper was gazing at nothing in particular, aviators sitting closed on the little table out of reach, but it was pleasant nonetheless. Add another to the list of things he hadn't realized he'd been missin' out on, he thought.

After a while Spy tilted his head and looked up at Sniper, a careful, thoughtful expression on his face, like he'd been considering something for some time. Sniper blinked at him, smiled, then went back to his blank gazing. He wasn't fully awake yet.

The thin Frenchman stretched up slightly, until his face was pressed gently against the side of his head, mouth against his ear. That ain't too bad, Sniper thought pleasantly. Several syllables were whispered in his ear, and suddenly he was fully awake.

He stared at Spy. Spy had quickly turned away and was looking at the shaded window, his face completely blank but fraying at the edges. The two of them had been together long enough for Sniper to read the signs, and he could tell that the man was angry at himself for what he'd just done.

"It is just a word that occurred to me," Spy said with forced carelessness. "A silly name, possibly fake, possibly heard somewhere in passing, who knows. Make of it what you will. Maybe you will find a use for it."

Sniper's heart was doing flips. He'd gotten so used to the two of them calling each other Sniper and Spy…

Licking dry lips, he nervously leaned in to Spy's ear, hoarsely whispering a few syllables of his own. He tried not to shake.

Spy's expression cleared immediately, and he smirked with sheer delighted amusement. "That is ridiculous. It suits you _completely_."

"I figured you'd say somethin' like that."

The smaller man had opened his mouth for further sharp mockery, but all that came out was a _whmpf_ of expelled air from being semi-crushed by the joyful Australian. For all that was going on right now, moments like this made the little pilot light inside burn brightly in defiance, and it was only a matter of time before it lit up an exit.


	15. Chapter 15 & Epilogue

"Don't it get to you any?" Sniper asked.

The two men stood side-by-side in the old spare room that Spy favored, gazing out over the rusty, mouldering no man's land between BLU's fortress and their own as the sun set behind thick masses of clouds.

"Explain."

"The…the _all of it_. Nothin' matters, we ain't makin' no headway but neither is BLU, s'all one big stalemate, one big game. I keep shootin' the same damn heads every day, you keep stabbin' the same backs." Sniper frowned at the clouds outside. "What's even _in_ all them briefcases?"

"It is not my place to look. Our superiors would know, and would be most displeased."

"An' that's that? You ain't bored or frustrated? Don't lie, Spy, yer Mr. Sharp Intellectual Man O' Mystery here." The other man's mouth twitched into a brief smile. "Don't tell me runnin' around sappin' the same shit day after day with nothin' to show for it don't bother ya."

"A job is a job," Spy simply said. Little cracks of doubt appeared at the edges however, and he busied himself with his cigarette.

"Hmph. Wish I could be all Cool an' Cucumber about it." Sniper scratched fretfully at his marred cheek. "Startin' to feel all closed-in an' trapped, t'be honest," he said quietly, looking down. "Wanna get out an' on with me life."

The clouds hanging over the bases were making him think of the clouds of gloom and worry that had started descending over him oh so often these days; he'd had to look away. They were starting to get so thick that the little rays of sunny enjoyment had a harder time of it getting through; depression was setting in. Even the joy of finally finding companionship with the person standing beside him was getting buried under the suffocating grey of everything else.

Sniper wasn't the only one good at noticing little details; the gun-metal eyes watched him intently from behind their heavy, dark lids, spicy smoke curling up around them. Spy appeared to be thinking about something.

"Nothing lasts forever, _mon amant_, as I know all too well. We shall see how it goes, yes?"

.

A massive finger nudged the tiny metal wheelbarrow forward three spaces. "Must poosh little kart," the Heavy muttered. "Now vhat?"

"Read what it says, duh!"

The oversized Russian leaned forward, chair creaking, and squinted at the gameboard. "Free Parking?"

"Means you just sit there and do nothin', gotta wait until next time."

"Feh! Is useless baby square!"

Sniper rubbed his temples slowly; he couldn't believe he'd agreed to this. For someone so muffled and lacking in facial expression, the Pyro sure could be _persuasive_. They sat in the makeshift rec room, him, Pyro, Scout and the Heavy, playing some silly American board game. A fairly sozzled Demoman sat a little ways off, trying to follow along.

"C'mon, Legs, it's your turn, get goin' already," Scout urged.

"Alright, alright, don't push me, I'm rollin'." Sniper moved his boot-shaped piece the appropriate amount of spaces, and looked at the text. "Community Chest? Where're them cards at?" Pushing his aviators down the bridge of his nose, he peered closely at the yellow card he'd just drawn. His face hardened and he frowned.

"Mrphzm?"

"'You Have Won Second Place In A Beauty Contest, Collect $10'," Sniper growled. He glared coldly at his fellow players over the tops of his sunglasses, waiting for them to stop laughing. "Go on, cackle away. Ya ruddy pikers. Stupid bloody game. This ain't worth ten fake dollars."

"Is interesting game, I like it," Heavy chortled. "Ve do not have game like it back in Motherland."

"Can't imagine vhy," said a voice across the room.

"Yeah awright, gimme the dice, Beauty Queen, my turn now," Scout said, leg bobbing under the table hyperactively.

The game went on for some time, and various other REDs came and went around them as it did. Returning after a long period of absence, Medic's sharp gaze scanned the room and he frowned.

"Vhere _is_ zhat _verdammte_…I cannot find zhe Spy, has anybody seen him?"

"Invis'ble?" Demoman ventured.

"Dummkopf," the German snapped. "Every day after battle ve meet to discuss things. Tactics, plans, mistakes. I have not seen him since before today's ended."

"He's probably just bein' a creepy spook and hidin' to get a good laugh outta us," Scout commented, nudging around some little green houses impatiently. "Or maybe he's stealin' stuff again." His face darkened. "He better not be stealin' _my_ stuff."

Sniper remained silent as the others theorized briefly and then went about their business. After the conversations with Engineer, he took care to express as little about Spy in front of them as possible. He wondered, though. Sniper usually did catch at least a _glimpse _of the man on the way to dinner or something before their nightly get-togethers. Spy had been out of sight for a long, long while.

He distractedly shuffled his multi-colored funny money into neat little piles. It was probably nothing.

.

Maybe it _was_ something. Sniper continued pacing around his room.

It was getting late, it was getting _very_ late. Spy came by every night now, without fail, but here it was nearly midnight and he was still alone. Sniper had tried knitting for a while, just for something to do. Nothing in particular, just a little practice swatch to see how several colors looked together. It was no good; as the clock ticked on he'd begun to drop row after row, and he'd tossed the messy little bundle aside in frustration.

He paced and paced, the dinky little desk lamp that barely lit the room throwing up long, gloomy shadows everywhere. Something hadn't happened, had it? Had Spy been captured by BLU for interrogation? He couldn't have died, he'd have respawned by now. Unless…unless the respawn had malfunctioned again…

It took every ounce of willpower Sniper had to not immediately run down to that eerie white room and kick the door in. Maybe Spy jus—

The doorknob rattled. Sniper's head snapped in its direction, and his muscles tensed. There was a sound very much like a lock being picked, and Spy burst into the room, practically slamming the door closed behind him.

Sniper visibly sagged with relief. "_There_ you are. Ya kinda had me worried there, ma—"

"Shut up." Spy locked the door, and hustled over to the little desk. He dragged one of the chairs over, and wedged it firmly underneath the doorknob.

"…Wot? Somethin' the matter?" Sniper's brow knit, accompanied by a puzzled frown. The Frenchman was moving quickly in poor lighting, but he caught glimpses of a hunted, greatly upset expression on his face.

"Shut up," Spy repeated. He was checking every corner of the room, even looking under Sniper's bed, and he darted over to the window, peering through the closed blinds. Was he checking to see if they were alone? Apparently satisfied that they were, Spy ripped his balaclava off his head in one swift movement and began massaging his face in great circular motions.

It was both unnerving and pissing Sniper off. "Now look here! Don't you tell me t'shut up! If yer gonna tell me somethin', tell me what the hell's the matter!" He descended upon the other man, angrily pointing a finger at him.

Spy wordlessly snatched it up with both hands, Sniper's huge, calloused paw contrasting sharply against the two thin, delicate appendages that held it. Spy then pressed the hand to his lips, and held it there for some time, eyes closed tight.

Well. Sniper was at a _complete_ loss now, bewildered didn't even begin to cover it. Fear and confusion chipped away at his insides, his heart going overtime. Whatever was up, there was no way it was something good.

"Spy. What's the _matter_."

The other man didn't respond at first. He held the hand to his mouth silently, rubbing it anxiously with his thumbs. "…You _are_ my end. Always suspected you might be," he whispered eventually. "Never should have, never…"

"Spy!" Sniper's insides grew cold as the Spy opened his eyes. They were wild and haunted, full of emotions he'd never really seen in the man before.

"I know of a village, a beautiful little Norman village, not too far from Rouen, where we could go," Spy murmured, looking up at Sniper's face. He lowered the bushman's hand to his chest, and freed one of his own to caress his lover's face. The shaking fingers seemed fixated on the facial scar, and traced along them continuously. "Beautiful, quiet, we would never be bothered. Let us leave tonight, it is cool and dark, perfect for travel in the desert."

"I'm not doin' a ruddy thing until I get some answers, mate," Sniper said firmly. He removed Spy's hand from his face, wrist held hard in an attempt to bring the man back down to earth. His inner alarm was growing exponentially. "An' since when would _you_ ever break contract?"

"_Fuck_ ze contract!" Spy shouted, writhing out of Sniper's surprised grasp. "Eet is worthless, eet is a sham!" The Frenchman lurched several steps in different directions, like he wanted to pace but didn't know where to start, running his hands through his hair. "So blind, so blind! Never should have done! Eet is your fault, convict! I should have died not knoweeng!"

He stopped just as suddenly as he'd begun, and grabbed Sniper's shoulders, staring wildly into his face. "I deed not mean it, _mon amant_! I never would have done, had I known eet! Eet iz zeir fault, _zey_ did eet!" he babbled desperately.

"Mate, if you don't calm down _right now_ I'm gonna lay ya out an' drag ya off to Medic! _What. Happened._"

Spy took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. He spoke very quickly, hands clutching away in spasms at Sniper's shoulders. "I…I tried to make progress, do you know? Enough with the dispensers and sentries, I wanted to see what else I could do. For you. _For you._ So I went in BLU's base and stayed there, yes?"

"Ya went in after-hours? But that's against the rules, ma—"

"And I am sure our stalemate has notheeng to do with zese rules!" Spy bared his teeth momentarily, and exhaled hard through his nose. "I went, I stayed, I watched from the shadows as the surviving BLUs trickled in. I thought, why not see what _else_ I can sap and muddle with."

"I moved from spot to spot, placing my little devices on anything that looked important, yes? It had never bothered me how similar the base interiors looked, right down to the layout. Never…bothered…" He trailed off, and his expression went wild again. Fingers clutched at Sniper's left cheek. "Never, never! I never meant to!"

"So you sapped all their computers an' shit, okay! Keep goin'!" Sniper was desperately trying not to panic alongside Spy now, the man's fear was contagious.

"Yes, the computers. Everything that looked technical. So much of it went to pieces, I could feel the electricity in the air. It gave me a headache, it all felt so strange, and…and…he…" Spy seemed to have trouble getting the words out. "The…the Engineer…"

"The BLU Engineer showed up?" Sniper urged.

"The BLU…_our_ Engineer showed up." Spy shuddered.

Sniper blinked at him. "Our Engineer? RED Engineer? No way, I saw him readin' in the messhall earlier."

"You do not understand, you do not! It was _our_ Engineer, but wearing BLU's colors! And then I saw others as I fled! They were all REDs, but BLU!"

"Yer barmy, mate, I think you need a liedown with a l'il help from Medic." Sniper felt the other man's forehead, it was warm and sweaty but not feverishly so. "Too many of them weird cigarettes of yers."

Spy slapped Sniper's hand away, and re-established his grip on the gunman's shoulders. "Listen to me, you stupid convict! I know what I saw, it was our Team, clear as day! I do not know how, or why, but it was us! BLU Team is us! Same faces, same voices, same jobs, same base!"

"I…but that _can't_ be right…" Sniper said weakly. He didn't want to believe it, he told himself he didn't believe it, but the horrible, stabbing hollowness in his guts said clearly that deep down he _did_.

It all made horrible sense. The almost completely mirrored fortresses with their oddly familiar layouts, the evenly-matched Teams and mercenaries, the strange rules, the fact that both sides had respawn…something had always nagged at the back of Sniper's mind when he'd faced BLU, and this had probably been it.

He made one last stab at common sense. "But we woulda recognized ourselves! Ya don't go near two years fightin' someone what looks just like you an' not _notice_!"

"It is the computers, or some other sort of technology, it has to be. Maybe something to do with the respawn," Spy whispered. "Something to keep us from realizing. Destroying the machinery in BLU's base caused such a headache, and then everything was clear. Too clear, too clear." Spy's grip spasmed, and he renewed his desperate raving at Sniper. "Clones, robots, some trickery, we have been fighting ourselves! I did not mean it, _mon amant_! I did not know!"

Sniper gaped at Spy in disbelief, trying to process the mad flow of words and the ideas contained within them. It was awful, but it made sense. But why did Spy keep looking at him like that, and apologizing? It wasn't like he'd done anything…to…Sniper…himself…

His hollowed insides refilled, but what they filled with was ice.

Staring at Spy as the horrible realization dawned, Sniper's hand crept unbidden up his own face, feeling the contours of the wicked scar that marred it from the tip of his nose to the tip of his ear. He must've been thinking exactly what Spy had feared; he could see the mad desperation in the man's eyes double as they flickered across his face.

His shaking hands slowly removed Spy's from his shoulders, and he turned away from the Frenchman without a word.

All those times he'd been stabbed and slashed, it had been Spy.

"..Sniper? .._Nez Rouge_?"

All those times he'd been humiliated, mocked and taunted, it had been Spy.

"I never would have done, _mon amant_! I did not mean to!" The voice was almost pleading now.

He knew what Spy could be like, on the field. He'd lessened it somewhat, recently, but Sniper was all too familiar with his wild laughter and cruel mockery of opponents, and the way he held and compared himself to them. The way he'd look down his nose at them as if they were dirt. He'd looked at _him_ like that.

A hand tried to alight on his shoulder, he brushed it off without looking.

Sniper remembered the day he'd received his scar, and the way Spy had been so strangely stunned at the sight of it. He never could figure it out; Spy'd never explained why. Were the BLU and RED respawns connected to each other? Had Spy fought the BLU Sniper, the marks carrying over to him as a result?

White-knuckled fists clenching, Sniper shut his eyes tight, trying to block out images of the Frenchman standing over him and cackling harshly, slashing his bloodied knife at him and shouting insults. _I never really was on your side!_ The man had killed and rekilled the son of the woman he once wooed, _as_ he had been courting her, why was he surprised? He'd given his heart to a traitorous snake, a vicious beast worse than anything he'd ever encountered in the bush, a murderous spook who'd helped make his life hell.

_But_, said a little part of Sniper's mind that always managed to remain ruthlessly logical, he hadn't been alone, had he. Sniper had given as good as he'd gotten, more than once. All those times he'd humiliated the BLU Spy with a thrown jar, blown out chunks of his head or body, cut him good with his kukri. He remembered that one time where he'd actually run the BLU Spy's body right through with the damned thing, smirking a little as the body fell at a job well done. That had been Spy, _his_ Spy.

And the BLU Sniper…that was _him_. The times where one of them had managed to kill the other, it must have been like some bizarre ritual suicide. He couldn't bear to think about that part just yet.

Nobody was innocent or held the high ground here. Neither side had known, and they'd all done their damnedest to fight and win. And _everybody_ had lost, as it turned out.

He turned back to Spy. The man was standing slightly hunched in on himself, arms wrapped around his body and face pointed down, eyes looking at nothing in particular. He wasn't crying; Sniper suspected the man had lost his capacity to do so years ago. But there was a definite air of numb despondency about him; he had the look of a carefully organized and confident man whose neatly stacked house of cards had come crashing down around him.

Sniper sighed quietly, and moved up to touch the man lightly on the arm. Spy's head tilted upwards, his eyes swivelling over to the Australian's face. The dark, puckered skin along his jawline was softly reflective in the poor lighting. The burns caused by BLU Pyro. Caused by _their_ Pyro.

"I did not know. I wish I had died so, not knowing," Spy whispered.

"Oh, no worries," Sniper said, vaguely. "I think we've all killed each other sev'ral times over, so…let's call it even, eh?"

Spy's mouth quivered, one corner arching up. "If you insist."

In one quick movement Sniper pulled the smaller man to him, roughly. He wrapped his long arms around Spy and just held him, tightly, silently. After the initial shock the Frenchman reciprocated, and they stood there for some time, just holding each other. Sometimes it was all you could do, in a bad situation.

"What're we gonna _do_, mate," Sniper said softly. Life had been so much simpler just a few hours before. Boring, frustrating, but simpler.

"We must flee," Spy replied. His voice was hoarse. "It was after hours, so I do not believe anybody up high was watching. But there are cameras everywhere, and the tapes will be reviewed first thing in the morning. We must be gone before then."

Sniper relaxed his grip and stood up straight, squaring his shoulders as best he could. "Let's tell the others then," he said, attempting to be calm and authoritative. "Not even Soldier deserves bein' left behind for…whoever…to come an' get 'im."

I dunno if we got a chance in hell, he thought, but it's worth a go.

.

It had taken a lot of convincing, but finally the RED Team stood gathered around a quickly-made campfire by Sniper's van, hidden away in the back corner of the base's property far from any camera. Things weren't going well.

At first nobody had believed Spy; they accused him of everything from too many blows to the head to smoking the wrong cigarettes to being the BLU Spy come to sow doubt among them. But coincidence after pointed-out coincidence began to unnerve them, and the sight of Spy's earnest, serious face as he detailed his observations and suspicions seemed to underline the stark truth of the matter. The balaclava remained in Sniper's room; Spy hadn't seen the point in putting it back on. Not now.

The truth was gradually accepted by RED, but had proven to be too much for the Team to take at once, and collectively at that. Arguments flared up, several at the same time. There were shouting matches over who had slept with whose mother or wife, who had betrayed whose friendship, who had given a particularly nasty injury or insult to whom. At this rate their superiors wouldn't have to lift a finger, Sniper thought in exasperation. RED Team would just do itself in.

"Put a sock in it, fellas."

The Team continued to argue. Demoman was apparently attempting to put both the Medic and the Soldier in a headlock at once, the Pyro was trying to hold the Scout back from Spy. Heavy wept quietly into his massive hands.

"_I said shut up y'all!_"

Everyone fell silent, staring at Engineer. The small, usually soft-spoken man hadn't said a word the entire time; he'd just stood there with his arms crossed, staring at the ground with his large chin jutting out thoughtfully.

"This ain't gonna accomplish a darn thing! If Spy's right, an' I think he might be, then we're in a heap'a trouble here!"

"But this traitorous cyclops—" Soldier growled, grasping a handful of the Scotsman's hair.

"But nothin'!" Engineer snapped. The Soldier went silent. "I dunno if it's all 'cos of clonin' or what, but we ain't the enemies here! The BLUs ain't really us no more, they stopped bein' us the moment they got made! An' after two years livin' separate lives like this I'm pretty sure they're even _less_ us!"

"Which one's the originals, ya think?" Scout asked nervously, eyeing everybody around him, but especially Spy. A number of the REDs' eyes kept wandering back to the Frenchman's bare, marked face. "Are there even any left?"

"I doubt it," Sniper said, rubbing his scarred nose morosely. No way in hell would he be sharing _this_ with his parents in his next letter. If he lived to write one.

"Vhat sick man does this?" Heavy asked. He wiped at his face with the back of one humongous hand. "Very, _very_ sick man, to do this."

"Somebody vith too much money, too much time, und little regard for human life," Medic replied. "Take it from von who knows."

"Hmmphtmble." Pyro shook their head.

"So what're we gonnae do, lads? Run fer it?"

"I RUN FROM NO MAN! I AM NO COWARD! YOU GATHER UP YOUR GIRLY LITTLE SKIRT AND FLEE IF YOU MUST, BUT I WILL STAY AND FIGHT!"

"Actually, Soldier's right," Engineer said, completely serious.

Soldier lowered his fists, one eye peering out from under his helmet in surprise. "..I am?"

"Runnin'd do us no good! These folks're powerful, they'd chase us an' find us lickety-split. We gotta do this like we do it back home in Texas; make a stand."

"Yes! Hoo-wah! We'll show those maggots what for!" Soldier punched at the air, grinning widely at the prospect of having a meaningful battle for once.

"Ya think we got a fightin' chance then, Truckie?" Sniper asked. He didn't dare be hopeful, but there it was, that little spark.

"A fightin' one, yeah," said Engineer. Nobody interrupted or sneered at the diminutive Texan; he was getting that look in his eye that cropped up sometimes in the more adrenaline-filled fights. He may've been friendly, good-natured and supportive for the most part, but the Engineer had a definite streak of determined and maybe even a little _demented_ viciousness to him. It never, ever paid to make him mad. And Sniper could tell, his friend was _burning_ with betrayed outrage.

"Let me guess, ve are going to challenge zhe Administrator to a fistfight," Medic said sarcastically.

"No, better. But we gotta get goin' if we wanna be ready for 'em. C'mon, fellas."

As everybody scrambled to gather supplies and help the Engineer with his plan, Sniper sidled over and pulled his friend aside. "You sure 'bout all this, mate?"

"Sure as spit, son. I don't like bein' made a fool of."

"Are you _really_ sure?"

Engineer sighed. "No, only sorta sure. But that's better than nothin' at this point, ain't it?" His face darkened again. "Those Mother Hubbards are gonna regret this. I know where they _live_."

.

"Little men see anything?"

"All's quiet on the western front, big guy."

Dawn had arrived; it was severals hours before the day's battle would've usually begun. RED Team waited, faces pale and lined from tension and lack of sleep. Scout and Sniper were perched up high, scanning the various horizons while the others down below helped Engineer with his finishing touches, or just idly waited for the inevitable, fingering their weapons.

It had been a busy night. Engineer had gathered up every sentry, dispenser and teleporter on the base, not to mention other half-completed inventions and scraps of this and that mysterious machinery. He'd pulled his pickup truck up next to Sniper's old camper, and had asked various folks to scavenge what they could from their weapon supplies. Their superiors probably wouldn't be too pleased about the way the computer systems and various dangerous stockpiles had been gutted and hacked around with, but it wasn't like _that_ mattered anymore.

Sniper scanned away with his modified scope, occasionally glancing down towards Spy. The Frenchman was leaning against a stack of barrels, puffing away on a cigarette like a smokestack as he watched Engineer and Medic fiddle with something. He was particularly pale, his face lined with worry and despair. The usual cool neutralness was nowhere to be found.

They'd grabbed a few minutes for themselves, somehow. They'd stolen away into some hidden little corner, the two of them, sharing what might be their last passionate embrace ever. There hadn't been time for much, but they'd made those few minutes count. Even if they survived this, Sniper wasn't sure he'd ever be kissed that well again.

"Hey, look at BLU base!" Scout yelled suddenly.

The eight men and one miscellaneous looked. They could see flickering off in the distance, like there was some sort of electrical disturbance going on inside the BLUs' base. Sniper flipped his scope back on to get a closer look, but just as he did the flickering stopped, and BLU went dark.

They stared at the building for a while, eyes straining. BLU remained dark and silent, a few wisps of smoke rising randomly. It began to give off the eerie impression that there was no longer anyone home.

"Mebbe…ye think mebbe we shoulda warned th' BLUs too?" Demoman said quietly.

It hit Sniper like a balisong to the gut. Whatever had just happened over there, the BLU Sniper and Spy were probably no more. Some version of _him and Spy_ were no more. He wondered if the two BLUs had discovered happiness with each other like they had, here on RED. He slowly removed his slouch hat and held it to his chest, eyes closed respectfully. Poor sods. At least they went not knowin', hopefully in their sleep.

"A shame," sighed Medic, "Since I do not think zhey vould've believed us. Ve became too bu—"

The Medic couldn't finish his sentence; the sudden crackling boom behind them made their ears pop.

They collectively whipped around, Scout nearly falling off his perch and taking Sniper down with him. The inside of RED base was suddenly full of arcs of electricity and minor explosions, and smoke poured out of various windows. Or was there some sort of gas in there as well? Some of that smoke was an odd color.

RED Team gaped at the destruction. Sniper scrambled down to the ground with Scout as Demoman crossed himself; Spy was instantly at his side.

"I think we owe you one, Frenchie," Soldier said weakly.

Any other time, there would've been a scathing retort or flippant piece of mockery. But Spy stood there just as shocked as anyone else, unable to say a thing.

"Move, we gotta move!" Engineer yelled at them. Several REDs snapped out of it. "They want us dead, we gotta be on our toes!"

They scrambled to finish the preparations. After a while a faint but insistent noise struck Sniper's ear, and climbing a crate he went back to scoping the horizon. And there they were, coming down one of the main roads located directly between the two former fortresses.

"_Incoming!_" he bellowed.

Everybody raced over to see where Sniper was pointing. Six heavily armored vehicles had appeared in the distance, varyingly marked with different logos belonging both to RED _and_ BLU.

They watched in silence. The trucks arced around towards the BLU side first, coming to a halt in front. There was vague noise hinting at the movement of people and some action taking place.

"Checkin' to see if everybody's dead, I bet," Scout said darkly.

"Yeah, an' we're next," said Sniper. He and Spy exchanged glances, and moved closer together.

"Ve can negotiate?" asked the Heavy.

"I doubt it, fella," Engineer replied. "These boys mean business." He cracked his knuckles and pulled down his goggles, jaw set. "An' they're gonna _get_ it."

The sound of the engines starting up again and heading towards RED filled their ears. "Just like we planned," Engineer murmured encouragingly. The men lined up, armed with their usual weapons, and waited.

The next few minutes as the trucks approached lasted years, to Sniper. His heart boomed in his chest; it seemed likely he'd croak of heart failure before anything else. This was it, wasn't it. If he died now, he died. There was no more respawn to make everything better.

Sniper gripped his old prized rifle, slung over his shoulder. Funny, how long he'd had this gun and how much he'd used it over the years. He was probably going to die with it in his hands. Memories of all the years he'd spent as a mercenary flashed before his eyes. Maybe this was his just reward for what he'd done with his life.

Other memories flashed by too. Had he wasted his life? Probably, so much of it had been empty and lonely, or used for suspect purposes. The good had been few and far inbetween.

But…the good had been _very_ good. Those moments with Spy had been some of the happiest he'd ever experienced, he'd never known you could get so much joy out of such simple little things.

And he'd have never known any of it if he hadn't taken this ruddy contract. Had it all been worth it? Probably not, but he liked to _think_ it had.

The trucks were nearly upon them. The REDs braced themselves, Engineer prepared to cause as much damage in their showdown, and hopefully their escape, as scientifically possible. Nobody got revenge like an Engineer, when the chips were down.

Sniper glanced sideways at Spy. The Frenchman must have felt his gaze, for he quickly returned it. The two men locked eyes, pale blue and grey-blue.

To hell with it, Sniper thought in a sudden burst of anger and despair. His shaking hand reached sideways and felt for Spy's, and when he found the thin gloved palm he squeezed it tight.

Spy's eyes widened momentarily, darting down to his hand and back up to his face. Then he calmed, and nodded almost imperceptibly to the tall bushman. The long, thin fingers entwined themselves around the other man's large, calloused ones.

Sniper didn't care if any of the others happened to look sideways and see, he needed this. The trucks were nearly upon them, and if he was about to die, it didn't matter. _He needed this_. It was what he'd always needed in life, and at the end of it all, it was _all_ he needed.

The two men stood there, hand in hand, and waited.

.

.

The medicine cabinet closed with a click, and he paused at the reflection in the mirror.

It was odd, how you could go day after day, even year after year, not really acknowledging or noticing something. And then suddenly it'd catch your attention. Maybe it was because he was feeling so thoughtful today.

He gazed at his reflection. It was the same old face; swarthy, thin, scarred. But no, not quite the same. It had a few more lines on it than it used to, as well as a rather higher forehead. He was forever being teased over how much his exquisite hairline had receded; he wasn't bald, but it had been _enough_. Half of what remained was decidedly grey, too. The sleek black was quickly disappearing.

His lover took great delight in the fact that his own hair had only receded slightly, and was greying at a much slower rate. It was a favorite subject for jokes and affectionate jibes. But he was always prepared with a comeback, it went both ways. A sharp poke to the belly and a comment about how at least _he'd_ maintained his slender figure and that would be that.

He wandered through the house, hands tucked delicately in pants pockets, almost in a dream. It had been a fine, warm day, and would probably be a very pleasant night. All the windows were open, and vague scents of salty and flowery origins wafted through.

His eyes drifted across several photographs on the wall. Most featured the two of them, either together or separate, but a few held other familiar faces. Some gone, some still around and occasionally in contact.

There he was in the central image, sitting at a shaded table outside with an unlit cigarette on his lips; endless scrubby, dry plains rolling out behind him, tall, red rocks a smudge in the distance. A small possum was crawling along the railing several feet away, and he was staring at it in consternation. The creature's ears were popped inside-out; he remembered how his lover had laughed when it had shown up, playing with its ears before taking the photograph to show how tame and harmless they could be. He often claimed it was his favorite photograph of him.

"Hell of an expression, that," he'd said. "Talk about yer fish outta water."

It was a shame that trip had ended so badly. They'd saved the meeting for the end of it, so as to enjoy their time there to a maximum degree, and had wound up with a slammed door to the face. The long flight back had been an agony; he'd wanted to console his red-eyed companion, but there was no way to do it in such a tight, public spot.

They'd never been back, probably never _would_ go back. He'd claimed he'd gotten over it, moved on with his life, but every few months or so he caught him hunched over the phone, trying to call or waiting to receive one in turn. He still sent the occasional letter. He couldn't understand why he'd torture himself like that; the number had probably been long-changed, or they had passed away. It was useless. It made no sense.

"But it's me _family_," he'd say. "I gotta at least try." And it'd be days before he'd be himself again.

They'd visited his home country, too, multiple times. It was beautiful and quite charming, the other man had agreed. But they never stayed too long; the crowded, bustling cities made him nervous after a while, even after all this time, and it lowered his own mood to see him pale and shivering uncontrollably in the cold European winter like that. Skiing was out of the question. Between the cold and his leg the man could barely function, and he hated being the cause of it. They kept most of their visits to the summer these days.

He gazed out the kitchen window as he made tea, regarding the yard. He had been a world-traveler, a man who had seen everything and wanted to see more, always on the move. He still got the itch, sometimes, they both did, and they still went on many trips when the mood struck.

But he'd never wanted to cut back so much. 'Settling down' wasn't for him, he had to keep going. The idea of just stopping somewhere and _staying_ there was absurd, especially so early in life. Retirement wasn't for him. Early retirement was even worse.

Or so he'd thought. It was funny, how one person and one day could change everything for you.

A steady stream of heavy, uneven footsteps reached his ears. Inwardly he smiled with amusement; even after all these years, and in such a climate, the man refused to wear anything on his feet but a comfortable pair of massive boots. He couldn't blame him, he was loathe to go more than a day or two without a nice vest complimenting his wardrobe. He felt incomplete without a vest.

"Hey, grab yer tea an' c'mere. There's a real beaut' sunset goin' on."

"Indeed? Just a moment."

He watched his long-time companion limp off. Time, injury and weight had slowed him down, but he still remained tall, broad-shouldered and strong, especially to him. That bad leg seemed to get worse all the time, though; it wouldn't be long before he'd have to start using a walking stick.

He wondered how he'd react to that news. Probably defenestrate the poor doctor. He wouldn't mind seeing that, actually. It had been a while.

Rolling up his sleeves, he blew gently at his hot drink and made his way out to the porch. It had a beautiful view of the ocean, their house on the beach, perched on a slight rise. Close enough to a center of civilization without being right up in plain view of the wandering public. Privacy was important, after all.

His companion was sitting on the old bench under the overhang of the roof, made from an old leather van seat, looking up at the sky. He cut a figure that was somewhere between ridiculous and handsome, with that horrible, loud mess of colors draped unbuttoned over his white undershirt, sharktooth necklace at his throat. He turned at the sound of his companion approaching, and the crinkles around his eyes deepened behind the tinted glasses.

"See, didn't I tell ya? S'real nice t'night, them big cottonball clouds everywhere really makes it." He moved sideways to make additional room, scratching at a sideburn.

His eyes flickered across the warm shades of the quickly darkening sky. He had to admit, it was lovely. The clouds and the ocean together took full advantage of the setting sun and colors around them.

"Cottonballs, you say? I do believe they are cumuli, _mon amant_. Really, how is it that I know more of your birth language than you do."

"It's 'cos yer a prick," the other man cheerfully replied.

"Hmm. Of course, silly me."

The other man motioned impatiently at him. "C'mon, sit down before yer tea gets cold. Before _I_ get cold. You don't want that now, do ya?"

"I am thinking."

"Ah, c'mon."

Smirking, he took his seat beside the larger man, and a long arm was summarily wrapped around his shoulders, oversized, calloused hand drooping relaxed down his front. They sat there, watching the shades in the sky change and melt away into darkness, the first stars of the evening coming into view. The dull roar of the ocean a ways off punctuated the breezy silence.

Sometimes he still worried, despite everything. Maybe they'd died after all, maybe this was a dream; how on earth were they getting away with this? Surely there was still counter-revenge to be sought, loose ends to tie. After more than fifteen years they were probably in the clear, but he knew very well that certain types of people could be very, very patient. He'd encountered them many times in his former career.

But for now, here sat two middle-aged men, old and getting older. Scarred, injured, greying, slowed, past their prime. The locals thought them 'Nam veterans; they didn't bother to correct them. They still had a gleam in their eye, a firmness and quickness to their hand, but they weren't what they used to be.

Arguments, low moods and uncertainty, estrangement from family and friends, hiding everything about themselves from the public eye…this was far from a perfect situation. He spent far too much of his time moodily contemplating it all, paranoia stabbing at him in sensitive areas. Like today.

And yet, here he was on a beautiful tropical night, sipping away at fresh hot tea, his lover's body pressed against him. Fifteen years was both a long time and not long enough; for all the faults and lingering possibilities, he hoped it would continue on for at least another fifteen more. And another after that. It had been worth it, hadn't it? No matter how imperfect it was, or how bad it might get?

It could be worse, he thought. It could _always_ be worse. That was their little in-joke, their mantra; it helped when times were dark. It seemed to hold.

His head drooped sideways, until finally it rested on the other man's still-firm chest. He felt the large, scruffy chin come rest on top of his head after a moment. After all this time, he still marveled at just how _warm_ to the touch his lover could be. Something about those desert-grown men.

"Y'know, I'm thinkin' we could really use a dog 'round here."

_Merde._

.

FIN


End file.
